


January 2007: New Year, New Residency

by Jane0Doh



Series: The Hand of God [6]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, BAMF Spencer Reid, Doctor Kevin Tran, Doctor Sam Winchester, Drag Queens, Graduation, Harassment, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, John Winchester was a very bad man, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nurse Castiel, Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-03 21:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15827136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh
Summary: The one where Sam attends a graduation party, and Spencer spills a secret





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO SORRY. Holy shit, I know it's been a long time between posts, but I just got through the biggest bout of writers burnout EVER. Like, I've gone through writer's BLOCK before, and it BLOWS, but writer's burnout is a whole 'nother beast. Whereas with writer's block, you stare at the blank page and you can't think of anything to write, with writer's burnout, you stare at the blank page and hate yourself lol. And jeez, it takes a while to conquer. My day job involves a lot of writing to, so unfortunately I needed to take a break from writing altogether and quit. I ended up getting a new job, switching programs and I'm happy to say I am doing much better :) So, for everyone who stuck out this long ass hiatus with me, thank you. It really means a lot!
> 
> Without further ado folks, here's January 2007!

**January 13 th, 8pm**

Sam and Kevin were expected at The End at 8pm sharp, according to the note Sam found folded on his backpack that morning. And that morning, all bright eyed and bushy tailed at the prospect of completing his last day as an intern at Bethesda General, he had been wholeheartedly anticipating a celebratory drink at Cas’ home away from home. But now, after a grueling fourteen hours on his feet, doctors yelling at him left and right, and a slew of patients from hell, all Sam wanted was to head home and crawl into bed, a night at a bar the furthest thing from his mind.

Kevin didn’t seem to be faring any better. He was folded up against the passenger door of the Impala, his feet curled underneath him on the seat (something Dean would have smacked him for if he were there to witness it), listlessly scrolling on his phone. He’d not even bothered changing out of his scrubs, unlike Sam who’d at least showered and thrown on a pair of jeans, and though his thumb flited over the touchpad of his phone he was mostly on autopilot, hovering somewhere between sleep and a day dream.

Had it been anyone else, Kevin and Sam would both have called it a night. They were beat, in no mood for a party and desperately wanted to sleep their next week away, before they were expected back at the hospital to start their residency. But it was Cas, and they both knew that, whatever he had planned, he’d gone all out.

The End was Cas’ bar. It was the place he grew up in, the place that made it possible for him to raise Jack at seventeen, that gave him the opportunity to go back to school and get a career. The owner Lilith, a waiflike blonde spitfire who was absolutely insane, took Cas in and gave him a job that only he could do, one he was uniquely qualified for, at a time when the only other options he had were working at Burger King or giving up his last living relative to the state. And though Cas was grown and had a solid job as a nurse, he’d never managed to leave The End behind. He still worked there Thursday and Saturday nights, pulling in crowds just as large and eclectic as when he was young, and whenever he needed to call in a favour, Lilith was always sure to yes.

He was her golden goose after all, and she needed to keep him happy.

A party at The End, on a Saturday night, with all of Sam and Kevin’s good friends and co-workers was a _big_ ask. Closing up the bar on one of their busiest nights could not be profitable, and Cas knew better than to cash in a favour that big on something that didn’t call for it. So, the fact that he did told Sam that celebrating their graduation meant the world to him. And that was such a Cas thing to do.

Sam pulled to a stop at a red light, only a few moments away from the bar. They were heading into the downtown core, and a few more turns would lead them down to 17th street, where rows of old brownstone storefronts lined up close to the curb, an eclectic mix of clothing shops, cheque cashing places and bars. Leaning his head back against the seat, he glanced over at Kevin, who was still scrolling through text messages on his phone at a glacial pace. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and change, first?” he asked, and Kevin looked up at him with a start, his voice cutting like a knife through the silence of the car, “We’re only ten minutes away, we can still swing by if we hurry.”

Kevin shook his head, the bags under his eyes only accentuated by the glow of the streetlamps. “No,” he said, slipping his phone back in his pocket and stretching his arms over his head with a grunt, “the sooner we get this over with, the sooner I get to sleep. I’d rather head straight there, have a couple drinks and then get out.”

“Same,” Sam said, rolling through the intersection when the light turned green, “if only he’d planned this for tomorrow night instead.”

“Saturday’s are his nights,” Kevin said, though he nodded his solemn agreement, “that was probably the only way he could swing this with Lil. I don’t want to disappoint him, he always goes all out with his parties.”

“I wonder how Spencer’s faring,” Sam smiled, turning off onto 17th, “I heard Jack say Cas conned him into decorating, just the two of them.”

“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be a fly on _that_ wall!” Laughing, Kevin rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, “You think Cas dressed him up? Or is he gonna be looking like a befuddled professor lost in a sea of aging crust punks?”

“I hope not. I like the nerdy professor look.”

“I know you do,” Kevin said, rolling his eyes playfully, “but I _also_ know Cas was probably dying to get his hands on him. Don’t be surprised if he’s decked out in leather and lace,” he paused, before adding, “or with a face full of make-up.”

Sam huffed, smiling wryly, “Spencer’s armed and touch averse. I doubt he’d let Cas come within three feet of him with a tube of mascara.”

Turning down a darkened side-street, Sam could hear the pounding music filtering through the walls of The End, only growing louder as he drove into the back alley that doubled at the parking lot. Cas’ car was parked in his usual spot, along with a few others he recognized, but Spencer’s old beater was nowhere to be seen. _Probably took the train_ , Sam thought to himself, glancing down at his watch as the hour hand ticked over to 8.

“Do you think it’s packed?” Kevin asked, slumping further into his seat even as Sam parked the car.

“Not with anyone we know,” Sam said. He turned his rear-view mirror and frowned at the rat’s nest of hair on his head, still tied back in a low ponytail from his day at work. “Cas still has to bring in the dough,” he murmured, pulling the elastic from his hair and trying to smooth it into submission with his fingers, “there’s probably only fifteen people we know there, tops. The rest are gonna be groupies and bachelorettes.”

Sighing heavily, Kevin let his head fall back against the seat, “Joy.”

“Just a few drinks, alright?” Sam gave up on fixing his hair and turned in his seat so he could face his friend, who was looking seconds away from passing out against the door, “then we can go home and not have to think about the hospital for a whole _week_.”

“That sounds so nice,” Kevin grinned, his eyes still closed, “No pagers, no attendings, no paper work… just my cozy bed, my pajamas and a week’s worth of movies.”

“You’re not going to leave your room till it’s time to go back, are you?”

“Only to hit up Blockbuster,” Kevin said, slapping the seat with both palms and basically flying into action, kicking open the car door and bursting onto his feet, not minding the cold air as he waved Sam along, “The sooner the better, dude! Let’s get a move on!”

Sam smiled disbelievingly as he watched Kevin jog up the fire-escape stairs that led to The End’s back door and shook his head. Only the prospect of sleep and solitude could get Kevin Tran moving like that, and Sam envied him his dedication. The only thing that could get Sam that motivated nowadays was Spencer, and he’d not seen him since Christmas. Although, he mused as he climbed out of and locked his car, the prospect of seeing Spencer that night was setting his blood to boiling, waking him up and propelling him towards the bouncer at the door.

Sitting on an upturned milk carton at the top of the fire escape and next to an overflowing ashtray, Alastair, who’d been speaking with Kevin, turned to sneer at Sam. He was a gaunt, pale bean pole of a man, a rat like face and an unblinking, unsettling stare that only helped him in his chosen profession. His knuckles were fat and scarred, out of place amid his thin, long boned hands, and his fingers shook as he pointed an accusing finger at Sam, declaring in his nasally voice, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“What did I do now?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his chest and craning his neck down so he could stare the sitting man in the eye. He wasn’t afraid of Alastair; he could take him easily in a fight, so long as he didn’t play dirty (which he was certainly not above doing). He didn’t want to piss him off, however. What he lacked in physical presence he more than made up for in psychopathy and criminal buddies, and Sam would rather stay off his hit list, if he could help it.

“Your little boyfriend, the scrawny one with the pretty face,” Alastair drawled, licking his lips lasciviously, and Sam dug his fingers into the meat of his upper arms against the pang of irritation that ripped through him, “he’s a fucking Fed. Did you know that?” The question was aimed at Kevin, who nodded tentatively, more afraid of Alastair and thus more easily intimidated, “Does Lil know you’re bringing a Fed in here? S’not gonna be good for business, that’s a given.”

Sam clicked his tongue, “How the hell would I know? Besides, any business Lilith does in here is above board. Just because you like to sell coke to college girls doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

Alastair surged up from his seat, knocking the ashtray over and sending cigarette butts skittering across the fire escape, falling through the cracks to the ground below. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he hissed, and while Kevin jumped back a few feet in shock, Sam held his ground, “and keep that shit to yourself, capisce?”

Shooting him a mock salute, Sam then gestured to the locked door, asking, “You gonna let us in?”

Expecting a fight and not getting one, it took Alastair a moment to catch up before he sighed heavily, throwing his hands in the air and turning to unlock the door. There were six deadbolts and a metal cage that swung outward, forcing Sam to back up down the stairs as it was opened. Three out of six were new additions, so either break and enters were up in the neighbourhood lately, or Lilith had really gotten paranoid since the last time Sam was there. Once it was open, Alastair righted his milk carton and sat down without a word, waving them on.

The music wasn’t as loud as Sam had anticipated, even when Alastair slammed the door behind them. It was pretty tame, just old punk rock playing over the sound system, and Sam could even make out voices at the end of the hall as he and Kevin dodged the empty kegs and liquor boxes that were stacked near the backdoor. It was dark, illuminated only by strings of Christmas lights, all different colours strung across the walls, stacked on top of each other and plugged into a severely overloaded power bar. If he squinted, Sam could just make out the decades old flyers for drag shows and concerts that plastered the walls, stuccoed up with stickers from long defunct punk and metal bands. His shoes stuck to the floor as he followed Kevin, peeling with a sick squelching noise away from the layers of dried old beer, and probably other stuff he’d rather not think about.

As disorienting as the back hallway was, once you got through the tacky bead curtains and into the main establishment, it wasn’t nearly as big a dive as it seemed. The End was small, longer than it was wide and the only windows were the shuttered floor to ceiling panes at the front of the building, separated from the street with metal bars. But it was deep, with a sizable bar along the western wall, a good deal of chairs and booths, and even a few pool tables near the front of the building.

The mainstay of the entire establishment was the stage. Running the width of the building, it stood three feet above the rest of the bar, a small area devoid of tables and chairs directly in front of it, and a row of lights protruding from it’s raised edge. A neon sign hung from the back wall, shining the phrase “Get Weird” in fluorescent pinks and yellows, with even more Christmas lights tacked and dangling from the ceiling, working their way across the entire bar.

The whole place looked like it had been plucked from a David Lynch movie, but despite it’s eclecticism, it never seemed to put Sam off. On the contrary, the first time he’d visited Cas at work, he’d spent the first twenty minutes taking in the busy, garish bar with a small, amused smile, wandering around at his leisure to examine the various kitschy affects that added to it’s charm.

Scanning the bar proper, Sam saw he was wrong in assuming the place would be packed. So far, there were only ten people there, all of whom he knew from the hospital. There was Cas, obviously, and his right-hand woman, Meg. Missouri, despite attesting she wasn’t going all day long, was sitting in a booth by the stage talking Chuck (the hospital’s lawyer) and Garth’s ears off. Becky, the nurse from geriatrics, found herself cornered by Charlie at the bar, and Kevin’s attending surgeon Benny was drinking in silence next to Victor, a fellow resident.

The two that most caught his eye, however, were both so busy studying the framed photographs of drunken bands and partygoers tacked along the walls that they hadn’t noticed Sam and Kevin come in. Spencer was nursing a beer as he slowly sauntered along the perimeter of the bar, as though he were in a museum, stopping to examine more closely the photos he found most interesting, while Eldon Styne trailed along, keeping only a pace behind him.

Dressed the same as he ever was, a blazer on top of a cardigan, on top of a button up, all of which were two sizes too big for him, Spencer turned to face Styne, his glasses falling a little further down his nose as he frowned. His hair was falling across his face, but Sam could at least recognize that whatever Styne was saying intrigued him. That was no surprise. The son of Bethesda’s Chief of Surgery, Eldon Styne was the youngest neurosurgeon in the western world. He was the cutting edge of neuroscientific research and came from a prestigious family; anything he had to say would be fascinating to someone like Spencer, who could comprehend and keep up with his discourse.

The only problem with Eldon Styne (and it was a problem that ran through the entire Styne family, all of whom were doctors working different positions at Bethesda General), was that he _knew_ he was talented. He was rich, privileged and entitled, a spoiled daddy’s boy who had his life handed to him on a silver platter. Kevin had regaled Sam numerous times on how he refused to write anything out by hand, or type up any of his own reports, lest he injure his precious hands. He had the nurses scrub him for surgery, for Christs sake, and even the other attendings would be sick to death of him, were he not the chief’s son. 

As if reading his mind, Kevin made a sound of displeasure and asked, “Who invited Styne?”

“He probably invited himself,” Sam murmured, watching closely as Spencer smiled at something Eldon said, brushing his bangs behind his ear and answering him confidently. Whatever they were talking about, it was something Spencer knew inside and out, and Eldon was taken aback, asking him another question quickly and stepping into Spencer’s space.

The instant Eldon stepped in towards Spencer his eyes widened, and the young doctor took a hesitant step backwards, unwittingly sandwiching himself between Eldon and the wall. And at the nervous look on Spencer’s face, Sam couldn’t help but bristle, his jaw clenching as he fought the urge to run over and pull Styne back by his collar. He couldn’t; it wouldn’t help matters, it would only piss off the son of his boss, and it would more than likely piss Spencer off, too. He wasn’t some damsel in distress, he was a grown man, and if he didn’t want to be speaking to someone, he’d leave.

At which point if Eldon couldn’t take a hint, _then_ Sam could step in.

In the meantime, though ever fibre of his being was begging for him to go to Spencer and pull him aside, to kiss him and pour into it every second that he’d missed him, Sam had a host to greet. He found Cas leaning against the side of the bar, deep in conversation with Meg and Lilith, the latter of whom was studiously pouring a round of shots. He’d not noticed Sam’s arrival either, but from the flush on his cheeks and the lazy grin stretched across his face, he was a few too many drinks in to be held accountable. “What in the world are you wearing?” Sam asked as he sidled up to him, putting Cas between himself and Meg (purely self-preservation; she got gropey when she drank).

Cas blinked once, then smiled impossibly wider, grabbing the lapel of his shirt, a pale blue button-down with happy, dancing birds smattered across it, and asked in turn, “What? You don’t like flamingos?”

“No,” Meg answered for him, bringing her martini up to her lips and shooting Sam a wicked gaze from over the rim of her glass, “he loves them, he’s just trying to look cool in front of Lil.”

“It’s not gonna work, Sammy,” Lilith chimed in, not looking up from the round of shots she was pouring as she pointed over her shoulder to a sign behind her back, one that read, “No Nazi Punks, No Yuppie Jocks, and No Entitled, Preppy Fucks.”

“Which one am I?”

“None of the above,” Cas said, glaring back and forth between Meg and Lilith, “There’s only one preppy fuck here, and he’s currently chatting up your boyfriend.”

“I noticed,” Sam grumbled, taking the whiskey shot Lilith slid him and knocking it back in one swift motion, “Who invited him?”

“He invited himself,” Meg said with a sigh, tipping her shot back and glancing over her shoulder at Eldon, who was currently leaning against the wall listening to Spencer, who was speaking animatedly with his hands, “heard me and Benny talking about tonight, and insisted he come along as Kevin is his, and I quote, ‘protégé.’”

Cas shuddered, though Sam was hard pressed to tell if it was from the shot he just took or what Meg had said. “He’s already snapped at Lil twice,” Cas said, sliding his empty glass back across the bar, “with his fingers, like she’s a fucking dog.”

“ _And_ he asked Cas if this place has classy stripper rules, or if he gets to touch the merchandise, so long as they’re on stage,” Lilith added, unknowingly stoking the ire that was already burning in Sam’s stomach. He clenched his hand into a fist against the bar, digging his nails into his palms to keep cool, until Lilith reached over and laid a calming hand over his wrist, cautioning him, “No fights. I can force Alastair to have your back, but I can’t keep you from getting fired tomorrow morning.”

“Aww, Cassie!” Meg cooed, leaning across the bar, her martini dangling gingerly in one hand, “Look at Bullwinkle, all riled up and ready to defend your honor! How chivalrous!”

Lilith and Meg burst into laughter, their cackling finally drawing Spencer’s attention from whatever Eldon was lecturing him on, and his expression brightened as he noticed Sam standing among them. Eldon kept on talking, not noticing as Spencer’s gaze was drawn elsewhere, his eyes locking with Sam’s across the bar. His hair, which had been getting steadily longer since Sam had first met him, came loose from where it was tucked behind his ear, and Spencer was quick to brush it away, unwilling to let it block his line of sight as he smiled shyly at Sam. There was a light flush across his cheeks, whether from the alcohol, Sam couldn’t say, but suddenly Meg and Lilith’s conversation fell into the background, affection warming him from the inside out and propelling him forwards.

Spencer had his own gravitational pull, at least where Sam was concerned. Sam couldn’t help but stride across the room, finding it impossible to stay away from him as he returned Spencer’s soft smile. He wasn’t the only one affected however, and while Eldon talked, gesturing to the photo they’d been examining, Spencer turned away, stepping towards Sam and meeting him halfway in an immediate embrace.

Sam melted forwards the second Spencer wrapped his arms around his shoulders, tugging him in by his slim hips and nuzzling into the side of his neck, assaulted immediately by the familiar scent of floral shampoo and clean laundry. The soft skin of Spencer’s throat was so delectably close, and after so long apart Sam couldn’t help but kiss him, peppering each press of his lips in a long line up the side of his neck, his heart hammering as he felt Spencer grip him a little tighter, his breath hitching in his throat.

When he reached the sharp curve of Spencer’s jaw, the slighter man tilted his head, capturing him in a searing kiss. Spencer’s lips were like salve on a wound, plush and soft with just a hint of the beer he’d been drinking lingering behind, and as he kissed him Sam could feel every ounce of longing, every thrill of arousal he’d pushed aside in his absence come rushing to the surface. He felt lightheaded, thrumming with need and despite the catcalls he heard coming from the direction of the bar, Sam could not be dissuaded. That is until he felt Spencer stiffen in his arms, his kiss less yielding as he remembered where they were, so Sam pulled back for him, putting just enough space between them that he could look down into those big, brown eyes he’d missed so much.

Had his hair always been this long? Sam wondered as he tucked another errant strand of hair behind Spencer’s ear, coaxing a tiny, elated smile that had Sam’s stomach doing flip flops. No, it was certainly getting longer; at this point he almost rivaled Sam in length alone, though Spencer’s locks were softly curled and bouncy, not nearly as thick as Sam’s. But that was where the differences stopped. Spencer’s countenance was the same, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, the way he stood and felt and breathed was all familiar, all so similarly endearing, as was the flush that stole across his cheeks as he attempted to ignore whatever rude comments Meg was throwing their way.

“Sorry,” Sam said bashfully, every iota of willpower going towards reigning himself in, lest he back Spencer against the wall and embarrass him further, “I should probably say hello first, before jumping you.”

“If it weren’t for the audience, I’d say that jumping me by way of greeting would be just fine,” Spencer said, the humor in his voice setting Sam’s nerves at ease, “I missed you.”

Grinning widely, Sam trailed his hands back down towards Spencer’s hips, squeezing him gently, “I missed you, too.”

“When did you—”

“Oh, look who it is,” Eldon interrupted, and Spencer stepped out of Sam’s grasp, turning to face the man he’d all but forgotten he was speaking to, by the looks of it, “Doctor Campbell, I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“Hello, Doctor Styne,” Sam spoke through gritted teeth, forcing a grin lest he tip Spencer off to how much he hated the man in front of him, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here at all. What made you decide to join us?”

“All of my interns are here,” he responded, gesturing around the room at their fellow patrons, “including my brother. The medical attendings too, so I figured I may as well accompany them. Lend this evening the touch of class it would otherwise be solely lacking.”

He was right, Sam realized. Not the touch of class jibe, but about his brother, spotting Roscoe Styne embroiled in an impassioned debate with Kevin and Benny. How had he missed him before? Roscoe was a giant, even by Sam’s standards. “Well, I’m glad you could make it,” he said, turning back to Eldon, “and thanks, for coming out. I’m sure Roscoe appreciates you being here, it being his last day of his internship as well.”

But Eldon waved him off. “We’re Styne’s, we don’t praise each other over minute achievements. Once he makes attending, then there’ll be cause to celebrate. But Castiel,” he paused, licking his lips absently, almost predatorially as he picked Cas out across the bar, “I’ve always wanted to catch him in his element.”

Spencer, who had remained largely silent throughout the exchange, glanced over at Eldon with a frown, looking between him and Cas, then Sam, and back again, the gears in his head whirring as he sussed out Eldon’s relationship to them. He must have spotted the thinly veiled animosity in Sam’s half-hearted smile, the lasciviousness of Eldon’s grin, and the tension that hung tangibly in the air around them, as he soon piped in, “Doctor Styne—”

“Please,” Eldon cut him off, turning his predatory smile onto Spencer with little care for Sam’s presence, “I’ve told you already, call me Eldon.”

“Doctor Styne,” Spencer repeated in that sweetly cutting way only he was capable of, sending a thrill of delight down Sam’s spine, “I’ve taken up so much of your time already. As you said, all your interns are here and I’m certain, for proprieties sake, that you’d like to congratulate them, or at the very least _greet_ them.”

The emphasis on _greet_ , and the call to propriety wiped any amusement from Eldon’s expression, and he glanced between Sam and Spencer just as the young doctor stepped closer to Sam, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his other hand on his chest. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, and I’m sure there’s lots to catch up on. Right, Sam?” he asked, looking up at him imploringly, diverting all his attention to the man he was currently leaning into and purposefully snubbing Eldon in the process.

“Right,” Sam answered, resting his palm in between Spencer’s shoulder blades before stroking down his spine, pleased with the shiver he’d elicited, “it has been a while.”

 _Two weeks_ , his traitorous brain supplied, _only two weeks and you’re both acting like lovesick teenagers_.

But Eldon didn’t need to know that. And it didn’t seem to matter to either Sam or Spencer, not one bit. The hand on his chest trailed down to his stomach, Spencer’s fingers dancing feather light over the planes of his abdomen, tracing the lines of his muscles through his cotton shirt, and Sam’s breathing picked up, his throat constricting with renewed need.

Blessedly, between his sudden dismissal and the burst of a very _different_ sort of tension in his immediate vicinity, Eldon quickly got the message. “I’ll leave you to it, then. It was good to meet you, Doctor Reid,” he said, clearing his throat before holding his hand out to Spencer, who tore his gaze away from Sam’s long enough to wave his hand in place of shaking Eldon’s. He faltered a little, before shoving his hand in his pocket and nodding to Sam, gifting him a gruff, “Congratulations,” before walking off to join his brother.

Sam barely noticed him leave, laser focused on the brush of Spencer’s fingertips as he teased them through the holes between his buttons, each brush against his skin licking at him like the curl of a flame. His head was swimming, the magnetism pulling them together fogging his brain, forcing him to wet his suddenly parched lips with his tongue. A quick glance around the room proved that no one was watching them, so Sam took a chance, dipping his palm into the small of his back, his gaze never leaving Spencer’s.

He watched as Spencer’s eyes clouded with arousal, his pupils expanding as he stepped impossibly close, his entire body nearly flush to Sam’s side. His breath was already coming in hot little pants, his lips trembling as he glanced around as well, and Sam bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to calm down. He needed to get grip; they were in the middle of a bar, surrounded by people he knew and worked with, and no matter how long it had been since he’d seen Spencer, there was no way that he—

“Take me somewhere,” Spencer whispered heatedly, so close that his breath fanned Sam’s ear, sending shivers down his spine, “Your car maybe, or not, I don’t care.” When Sam frowned down at him, heat prickling under his skin at the implication of Spencer’s words, but not trusting he’d heard him right, Spencer added, “If I’m not alone with you in next five seconds, I’m afraid I might spontaneously combust.”

Warmth blooming in his stomach, Sam whimpered softly as he took the bait and ran with it, furiously thinking of where they could go. “Alastair’s outside,” he murmured, and Spencer must have had the pleasure of meeting him already, as he accepted that as an answer, no questions asked, “but I have an idea.”

Grabbing Spencer’s hand, Sam looked around one more time, checking that no one had taken notice of them before quietly pulling Spencer behind the bead curtains with him. He walked a few paces down the hall, anticipation trembling beneath his skin as he felt for the inconspicuous door that blended into the wall, stuccoed with stickers like the rest of the hallway. But once he found it, he wasted no time thrusting it open and leading Spencer inside of another, dimmer hallway, with washrooms on one side and a door that read “Talent” on the other. And as impressed as he was that Spencer didn’t seem fazed that Sam might be dragging him into the bathroom, he took a left instead and ushered them into the “Talent” room, locking the door behind them.

As expected, the dressing room as devoid of patrons and performers, with all the lights off save for the vanity table mirror at the far end of the room. Lines of clothes, sequined and feathered, hung from the many racks across the walls, and there was a single loveseat across from the door, but the moment the lock clicked into place, Spencer darted in front of him, pushing him back against the door and kissing him heatedly.

Sam moaned helplessly, enveloping Spencer’s body in his arms as hunger filled him near to bursting. How could he possibly convey the many nights he’d spent alone in his bed, yearning for Spencer to touch him like this? How many days at work, when he was dozing into his fifth coffee that he wished he could feel Spencer’s lips on his, or hear his voice, his laugh, see his smile? The scent of him, like clean laundry, shampoo and old books, was overwhelming and had Sam’s heart fluttering in his chest, as every yielding press of his lips hypnotized, enthralling him like a siren to a lonely ship.

And by the desperate grip Spencer had on Sam’s lapel, he hadn’t been faring well without him, either. His slender fingers were knotted in his plaid flannel over shirt, trembling as he was pulled into Sam’s body, molding against him. He whimpered as Sam sucked on his lower lip, exhaling shakily only to gasp for breath immediately after as Sam smoothed his hands down his sides, holding them flush with one hand on his lower back, the other groping over the curve of his rear. His hips rolled forwards, almost of their own accord, and both he and Sam gasped into each others’ mouths, Spencer’s grip tightening on his shirt as Sam squeezed his hips on reflex.

Relinquishing Spencer’s lips with a sigh, Sam closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door as he tried to collect himself. He smiled as Spencer rested his forehead against the side of his throat, and murmured through heavy breaths, “It’s good to see you, too.”

“Shut up,” Spencer said bashfully, burrowing deeper into the crook of Sam’s neck, the heat from his cheeks radiating against Sam’s skin, “you don’t seem to be complaining.”

“I would never,” Sam lifted a hand to run his fingers through Spencer’s silky tresses, canting his chin down so he could kiss his temple, “’in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.’”

Spencer looked up at him sharply, suddenly so concerned that Sam feared for a second that he’d misspoke, until he guided Sam back down to his height, kissing him just as heatedly as he had when they first came into the room. “That’s not fair,” he whined between kisses, his nose bumping against Sam’s as he softly pecked his lips, “You know I can’t think when you do that.”

“Do what?” Sam asked, feigning ignorance as he maneuvered them away from the door, backing Spencer towards the sofa.

“Quote Virginia Woolf at me,” Spencer replied, stopping once his calves hit the edge of the loveseat, pressing his palms to Sam’s chest as he said, “I’m not sitting on that, it’s filthy.”

“It’s not that bad,” Sam said, and when Spencer cocked a brow at him he asked, “how do you figure?”

“It’s a sofa in the back room of a bar.” Spencer didn’t even look over his shoulder at it, didn’t budge or break eye contact with Sam. He just looked him dead in the eye and said, “I couldn’t begin to guess how many people have had sex on it before us.”

A bright red flush immediately stole across Spencer’s cheeks, and Sam laughed. “Before us?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows and earning himself a playful swat on the chest, “are we going to have sex on this ‘filthy’ couch, Spence?”

Despite his teasing, Sam felt as a tremor ran through Spencer’s body and watched, captivated, as the mere implication caused a hitch in his breath, his honey-coloured eyes heavy lidded, darkening with arousal. And god, did he know that feeling. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to drop to his knees, throw those long, beautiful legs over his shoulders and make Spencer see stars, but he knew that they couldn’t.

Even through the heat in his eyes, Spencer hesitated, unable to answer him but knowing full well there was a room full of people just on the other side of the wall, people he didn’t know and was already uncomfortable being around. Spencer may have been one of the most (surprisingly) sensual lovers Sam ever had the pleasure of being with, but he wasn’t a quickie in the back of a bar kind of guy. And no shame on those that were, as Sam was certain (though he’d rather not think to hard on it) Cas had plenty of one-night-stands on that very couch… but he wasn’t, either.

Besides, he mused as he kissed the tip of Spencer’s nose, reversing their positions and sitting down on the sofa, Sam knew he’d want to take his time with him. It had been so long since they’d been together that the moment Sam got Spencer alone, he’d be unable to keep from taking him apart, piece by piece and worshipping every second of solitude that he had with him. He interlaced their fingers and tugged Spencer forwards, allowing himself to leer a little and appreciate his boyfriends lean, graceful movements as he climbed into his lap, straddling his thighs. He’d missed him so much, and the weight of Spencer settling atop him was so comforting, so familiar that Sam tilted his chin up, silently begging a kiss as his heart swelled in his chest.

He was head over heels at the mere sight of him. He was so in love with him it made him heartsick, even when he had Spencer in his lap, wrapped up in his arms and kissing him languidly, as though they had all the time in the world. As though they were the only two people in the building.

“God, I missed you so much,” Sam murmured as they parted, resting their foreheads together. He cupped his cheek, skimming the pad of his thumb across Spencer’s cheekbone, thrilling when Spencer closed his eyes and nuzzled into his hand. “We have to stop meeting like this,” he added, as Spencer turned his head to gently kiss his palm.

“In backrooms of bars?”

“Infrequently,” Sam said and, hypnotized by the sharp curve of Spencer’s jaw, was enticed to lean forwards, laying a trail of kisses underneath it, “and I know that’s my fault. I’ve been so busy these past few weeks, I could hardly manage a phone call.”

“That’s alright,” Spencer replied, his pulse fluttering as Sam scraped his teeth across his lightly stubbled throat, “I-I understand. I’ve been busy, too.”

“I’m so happy you could be here tonight,” Sam said, smiling against his throat at the soothing way Spencer carded his fingers through his hair, “you didn’t have a case?”

Spencer shook his head, holding Sam close to his chest as he buried his nose in his hair, his voice muffled as he spoke, “No, but I just got back from one.”

“Do I want to know?” Sam asked, pulling back so he could look Spencer in the eye. Sometimes he didn’t mind talking about cases, but there were times, usually when they involved children or the mentally ill, that Spencer preferred the Winchester brand of coping: out of sight, out of mind.

And this appeared to be one of them. “No, you don’t,” Spencer said, running his palms down Sam’s shirt, his eye’s downcast but the hint of a smile curling at his lips, “I missed you too, you know. I think about you all the time, even when I know I shouldn’t.”

Sam grinned, gripping Spencer’s hips with both hands and jostling him playfully, “Oh? And what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Exactly what you’re insinuating,” Spencer said, smiling wider when Sam slid his hands down from his hips to his thighs, squeezing lightly.

Sam kept his eyes on Spencer’s face, not wanting to miss even the most minute shift in his expression as he inched his open palms up Spencer’s legs, curving towards the backs of his thighs and up until he was groping his ass through his slacks. Spencer’s thighs shuddered but he didn’t move, still staring wickedly into Sam’s eyes and Sam replied, “Me too. I’ve thought about you every day, every night, in every way I could imagine.”

Canting his hips back into Sam’s grip, Spencer’s eyelashes fluttered as Sam kneaded his cheeks, dipping his fingers towards the crease of his inner thighs, just enough pressure behind his fingertips to make Spencer’s mouth drop open and his eyes go glassy. “We’re not having sex in here,” Spencer reprimanded him in a shaky voice, and though Sam knew he was right, his half-hard cock, already straining at the leg of his jeans, begged to differ, “so don’t even start.”

“You’re a bad influence,” Sam murmured, pressing a kiss to the center of Spencer’s chest, the thick wool of his cardigan scratching against his chin, “I was trying to behave myself, but all you needed to do was bat your eyelashes and I was a goner.”

“You need to work on your resolve,” Spencer said with a cheeky grin, staring down at Sam tenderly, “and I did you a favour in getting rid of Eldon.”

“That _was_ very kind of you,” Sam murmured, unable to keep his hands to himself as he pulled Spencer close, kissing his cheek, “getting you all alone was a surprising bonus.”

“And very unwise.” Spencer pulled away and sat back on his heels, looking warily at the door, “This is the first time I’ve met your coworkers, and I doubt any of them are going to believe we came in here to talk.”

“Not with you looking like that, they’re not.”

Spencer frowned at him, “Like what?”

“Ruffled and gorgeous,” Sam told him, reaching out and attempting (fruitlessly) to pat down his wild head of hair. Spencer rolled his eyes in mock annoyance as he attempted to straighten himself out, unbuttoning his cardigan so he could tuck his shirt in properly. “Did you come here straight from work?” he asked, smiling at the sweater vest over button up combo Spencer was rocking.

Nodding, Spencer replied, “I met Cas at your place, and we came straight here. He tried to convince me to change, but I’d never listened to Black Flag before. It seemed disingenuous to wear their shirt if I’ve never heard their music.”

“How very forthright of you.” Sam chuckled, tugging Spencer close once again and kissing him on the temple, “Thank you for coming.”

Spencer pecked him on the lips, “There’s no where else I’d rather be.” Patting Sam on the chest to draw his full attention, he asked, “What’s the deal with Eldon? I take it none of you like him very much?”

“Not really,” Sam shrugged, “all the Styne’s are spoiled, rich assholes. Their dad is the Chief of Surgery, and the rest of them were all sort of strong-armed into following his footsteps. Roscoe isn’t bad, he’s just doing what he needs to secure his inheritance. But Eldon and Jacob are dicks. Eldon especially.”

Perceptive as ever, Spencer asked, “What’s Eldon’s problem with Cas?”

“It’s not really an issue so much as he’s into him,” Sam said, already feeling his ire pick up at the very thought.

“He likes him?”

“No, he wants to fuck him.” Taken aback by his brusqueness, Spencer shuffled off Sam’s lap and onto the (apparently not so) filthy couch, waiting for him to elaborate. But Sam didn’t know how much, if anything, Cas and Spencer talked about while they were alone, and he didn’t want to spill any details Cas might not be ready to share, so carefully choosing his words, he said, “Not because he likes Cas or because he finds him attractive, but in a creepy, fetishizing way that’s he’s never been shy in sharing. He’s the reason Cas refuses to go into the surgical ward alone anymore.”

And at that, Spencer was oddly quiet, tapping his fingers against his knees as he parsed his words. He wet his lips with his tongue and glanced around the room, scanning the various dresses and accoutrement before looking back at Sam and asking, “Is that because he’s a drag queen?”

Sam froze, asking cautiously, “Did Cas tell you that?”

Spencer shook his head, “I saw a few pictures of him downstairs. He was in drag, and _far_ too young to be working in a bar, but it was certainly him. Plus, you— you just mentioned fetishizing…”

Those both checked out. Cas had started working for Lilith when he was seventeen, just six months after his mother died, leaving Cas to take care of a newborn baby, his ailing grandfather and himself, alone. It took the kind of money he couldn’t get from working at a Burger King, so when Lilith offered to let him rent the space to perform, giving him a cut of the door sales to skirt liquor laws and a fake ID, just in case, it was too good a deal to pass up.

Besides, he was talented. It’d be a shame to let that go to waste.

It wasn’t something Cas was ashamed of. He took pride in his art and clearly had no issue with letting people know what he did to support himself through school, and even now on the weekends. He’d gotten older, sure, and the crowds had changed a little (blessedly so), but he was still Lilith’s main attraction at The End, and he wore that title like a badge of honor.

Except for when it came to who knew about it. Sam wasn’t around at the time, but he’d heard the stories, told from different perspectives through different individuals, some who were there and other’s who weren’t. Stories about bigoted doctors and orderlies at the hospital essentially torturing Cas for what he chose to do in his free time, harassing him endlessly only to submit complaints to HR that _he_ was the one making _their_ workplace uncomfortable. It turned into such an ordeal that at one point the dean forced Cas into tribunal. The ACLU got involved, and eventually Crowley (of all people) had to take the stand in defense of Cas’ right to work and his ethics.

Cas had never given two shits about being different; he’d been that way his whole life, and to him it was a point of pride. He was the spanner in the works and he loved it. He was willing to take all the shit the world could pile on him and more, so long as he could be true to himself. And he could take it. There was no one Sam had ever met (besides Dean) who was as resilient as Cas.

But the final straw was Eldon. He showed Cas that words weren’t the only way to hurt someone. He proved to him, that for all his pride and fortitude, there were still things for him to be fearful of.

He was much more cautious now as to who he told of his second job.

Sam wondered if he would be angry that Spencer knew. Not that it had taken much for Spencer to figure it out: Cas had personally invited him to a party at the bar where he _performed_ as a drag queen. He must have realized that Spencer, the master deducer, would’ve gotten it eventually. But Cas might still get upset if Sam told him about Eldon.

Spencer was watching him closely, however, gnawing on his lower lip with his eyebrows tented in concern, looking as though he regretted even asking at all, and Sam didn’t want to make him feel like he’d misspoke. He’d done nothing wrong, and he didn’t know the baggage that came along with Cas’ other job, so there was clearly no ill will in him asking. He’d just been curious, inquisitive as per usual, and was looking to learn more about one of Sam’s close friends.

So, Sam relented, taking pity and giving him the cliffs notes version. “Yeah,” he said, running his fingers in soothing circles along the side of Spencer’s thigh, “it’s because he’s a drag queen. Eldon doesn’t give a shit about Cas, but for some reason he’s latched on to the idea of him in drag, and now wherever Cas is concerned, he turns into an even bigger asshole than normal.”

“And I take it he’s the kind of person that refuses to take no for an answer?” Spencer asked, and when Sam nodded his head he clicked his tongue and looked away in disgust, “Jesus, what a fucking pervert.”

Sam choked out a startled laugh. Spencer had a wonderful knack for taking him by surprise, and though he hadn’t expected him to brush off Eldon’s obvious lack of concern for Cas’ wellbeing, his vehemence was refreshing. “How long were you and Cas here alone?” he asked playfully, nudging Spencer in the side.

“Long enough for him to tell me all your dirty little secrets,” Spencer replied with wry grin.

Sam caught himself mid-panic, and forced a smile, his heart flip flopping in his chest even though he _knew_ Spencer was just teasing him. “You two did a good job on the place,” Sam said, ignoring the fact he’d not even glanced at any of the decorations when he walked in, his focus narrowing in solely on Spencer.

And he called him on it. Swatting at his upper arm, Spencer said, “You don’t even remember what it looks like out there.”

“Do so.”

“Uh-huh?” Spencer quirked a brow, “Go ahead then, tell me what’s hanging over the stage?”

Pursing his lips, Sam wracked his brain trying to remember, but he was coming up with nothing. Just the sight of Eldon Styne boxing Spencer up against a wall with that haughty look on his dumb face. Luckily, he was saved, just as Spencer’s expression shifted into something akin to a cat who caught a canary, by the door knob rattling loudly.

They both jumped to their feet, moving away from each other and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. “If you two are fucking in there, I charge by the hour!” Lilith shouted as the lock clicked open, the door swinging inward. Standing on the other side, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the door frame, ecstatic that she’d caught them red handed. “Aww,” she said with a put-upon pout, “it’s no fun if you’re not naked. What are you, Mormon or something?”

“Why would we be naked?” Spencer asked blankly, denial apparently the name of the game.

“Yeah Lil,” Sam added, slinging an arm over Spencer’s shoulders, “why would you think that?”

“I was born at night,” Lilith said with a roll of her eyes, “not _last_ night. Did you get it out of your systems? Cause you gotta get out there; it’s your party, after all.”

Spencer nodded and gestured through the door to the bathroom across the hall, “I just need to…”

“Me too,” Sam said, and followed hot on Spencer’s heels until Lilith stopped him with a palm to his chest, pointing to the women’s washroom.

“Separately,” she said, giving him a quick shove in the right direction, Spencer already disappeared behind the other swinging door, “no more hanky-panky, mister. I’m waiting right here.”

Putting on the best clueless countenance he could muster, Sam replied, “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Get in there!”

Lilith gave him one more mighty shove (for someone so small, she was surprisingly strong) towards the bathroom, and he relented, chuckling as he darted out of her lethal, swatting hands and past the door. They hadn’t been gone that long, he mused as he glanced down at his watch, only half an hour.

They still had a whole night to get through, yet.

**8:30pm**

“You are _so_ adorable!” Becky cooed, reaching out to grab Spencer’s cheeks between her palms. He might have darted out of her reach were he not sitting on a bar stool and pinned between her and Meg, who was grinning widely, but unfortunately, he didn’t want to fall. So, with a weary sigh he sat still as Becky grabbed him by the face, pleading silently with Sam over the top of her head.

And Sam might have helped him, if he thought he was in any real trouble. But Becky was a touchy, feely monster most of the time anyways, a combination of working in geriatrics and just her barebones personality, and if Spencer wasn’t keeping her at bay, Sam was certain he’d be on the receiving end of those grabby hands.

Selfishly, and not the least bit sorry about it, Sam shrugged and threw back another shot, laughing when Spencer glared and flipped him off behind Becky’s back.

“Isn’t he?” Meg said, smiling at Spencer when he turned to look at her, his cheeks bright red and just relinquished, “He’s like a dorky Cillian Murphy.”

“Thanks?” Spencer murmured, though his words didn’t match his tone as he brushed aside Becky’s wandering hand.

“Back off a little,” Lilith chimed in from her place behind the bar, pushing a fruity martini Becky’s way in hopes of distracting her, “let the kid breathe before you scare him off for good.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Meg craned her neck, so she could get a good look at Sam, “Bullwinkle’s got enough problems in the dating department, hmm?”

Becky huffed, “No, Sam’s just too picky.”

“Anyways,” Lilith leaned across the bar, “Spencer, how did you meet?”

Becky and Meg leaned closer, and soon enough Spencer was corned in the center of their little huddle. Despite expecting him to be nervous with so many eyes on him, Sam was surprised at how cool and collected he was, sipping his drink gingerly before answering, “Sam stalked me.”

Sam sputtered his drink, coughing into his fist. “What?!” he choked.

“What else would you call it?” Spencer asked, shrugging nonchalantly, “He came to the coffee shop I frequent at the same time as me every morning for a month. For the first few weeks he just stared, but then he started reading the same books as me.”

“Sam!” Becky turned to him and backhanded him lightly across the chest, “What the hell!?”

“Yeah man, that’s creepy.”

Sam quirked a brow at Meg, “So says the girl whose idea of showing affection is keying someone’s car.”

“It got my point across,” she said, never deviating from her drawling monotone, “and now every time he opens his trunk, he gets to see my message of love.”

“I doubt Cas appreciated you carving ‘choke me, bitch’ into his paintjob,” Lilith smirked, “besides you’re not his type.”

Meg sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes heavenward, “I _know_. Why can’t you let me dream?”

“Cause you dreaming leads to property damage, apparently,” Spencer quipped. Meg guffawed loudly and clapped him over the shoulder, prompting him to duck out of the way, “Geez, what is with you people and touching?”

“Get used to it,” Sam said, grinning proudly as he watched his boyfriend, normally so reclusive and quiet, taking to his overly boisterous group of friends like a duck to water. “It doesn’t let up,” he added when Spencer looked over at him pitifully.

“Focus!” Becky tapped her martini off the bar like a tiny glass gavel, trying to wrangle the attention of their group back to the matter at hand, “We’re getting off topic!”

“Remind me, what was the topic?”

“Sam’s stalking.”

“Oh yeah,” Meg nodded, rolling it over in her head before asking Spencer, “why would you agree to date your stalker?”

“I found him studying metabolic diseases at the café one night. He looked sad and he needed help, so I caved. Far be it from me to judge someone for being socially awkward.”

“But aren’t you an FBI agent?” Becky asked, “like, you weren’t worried at all?”

“What would he have to be worried about?” Sam asked, starting to get kind of offended.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Becky waved away his concern, saying, “I mean, _obviously_ you’re nice and kind and wouldn’t hurt a fly, but Spencer didn’t know that. All he knew was you were a tall, hunky dreamboat that also _stalked_ _him_ for a _month_.”

“To be fair, we didn’t start dating right after that,” Spencer said, “We met for coffee in the mornings for a while before Sam asked me out.”

“Aww, Sammy!” Switching gears, Becky nudged him in the ribs, “You’re so cute. What did you guys do?”

“Sam bought dinner and drinks and drove us to an overlook, outside of the city.”

“You Lothario! That sounds so romantic!”

“Well it was,” Sam said, glancing slyly at Spencer before adding, “but only after Spence put the gun away.”

All three women looked over at him at the same time, all wearing the same flabbergasted expression, silenced by their communal shock. Spencer, on the other hand, dropped his head into his hands and moaned, “Oh god…”

“He brought a gun on a date!?”

“He didn’t use it, right?”

“Well, he _is_ a federal agent…”

“No, I didn’t use it!” Spencer nearly had to shout to be heard over their chatter. He held his hands up in his defense, saying, “I just pointed it at him for a minute.”

Poor Becky, who was entirely overwhelmed and out of her depth in this conversation, nearly slumped over the bar. She leaned on her elbow, one hand tangled in her hair as she took a long, ponderous sip of her martini, before asking, “Why?”

“Because I didn’t really know him!” Spencer said, wincing when Sam gave him a curious look and adding, “Or, I guess I thought I didn’t. And when he got me in his car, refused to tell me where we were going and drove me out of town into the middle of the woods, well…” he trailed off, scraping the condensation off the side of his drink, “I _am_ a federal agent.”

This time it was Meg who glared angrily at Sam, her mouth falling open as she finally pieced it together. “You didn’t tell him where you were going?” Sam shook his head, and she scoffed, wrapping an arm around Spencer’s shoulders and tugging him into her side protectively, “How the hell did you manage to score a second date?” Pushing Spencer away as quickly as she’d pulled him in, turning her ferocious stare onto him as she asked, “Why did you _agree_? What, a few days later in retrospect, the giant dude who stole you away into the woods didn’t seem _that_ scary? I thought you were supposed to be a genius, _genius_!”

“Well, I—” Spencer stammered, “Once he explained why we were there, it was actually really nice. And since our second date was technically the next morning, I guess I—"

He snapped his mouth shut, his eyes going wide, and Sam couldn’t stifle a laugh at the look of abject terror on his face. He realized the implication of what he’d said the moment the words passed his lips, and while Meg was looking ten shades of confused, Lilith got it almost immediately. She clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling behind her palm as she said, “Oh my god, you’re both freaks… you’re a match made in heaven!”

“What?” Meg asked, still clueless.

“They had sex,” Becky answered for them, surprisingly glib, “their second date was the next morning because—”

“Sam spent the night,” Meg said, finally catching on. Spencer, who was so red in the face now he looked to be doing his best impression of a tomato, looked up from the spot he’d been staring at on the bar when Meg tapped him on the shoulder, glowering in the face of her Cheshire grin as she asked, “sleeping with your stalker on the first date doesn’t sound too smart either, does it sweet cheeks?”

“So, Sammy took you on a scary turned lovely date, you invited him in for a,” Lilith raised her hands and air quoted, “’night cap,’ and then the next morning you both parted ways all starry eyed and smitten. That’s adorable.”

But neither Sam nor Spencer answered to the affirmative. Instead, they both glanced at each other, their gazes meeting over Becky’s shoulder and Spencer smiled shyly, his cheeks flushed. Sam smiled back, his pulse racing, skin prickling with heat at the mere memory of that ‘second date,’ that long weekend at Spencer’s frigid apartment, spent in a delightful haze of books, food and sex.

Becky looked between the two of them, her head snapping from Spencer to Sam as she cried, “Oh my god!”

“You didn’t leave,” Meg said, pursing her lips and nodding approvingly, “good for you.”

“When _did_ you?” Becky asked.

“The day _after_ the day after,” Sam said, before chugging the rest of his beer.

“Oh my god!” Becky screeched.

“See?” Lilith waved a pointed finger between the two of them, “You’re _freaks_!”

Meg rolled her eyes, “Everybody fucks, Lil.”

“Yeah, Lil,” Sam added.

“These two like bunnies, apparently!” She glared at Sam, “Don’t act like I didn’t just catch you two snogging in the backroom.”

“We weren’t having sex!” Spencer cried exasperatedly, and Becky patted him sympathetically on the back.

“ _Sure_ ,” Lilith said, not believing him for a second but taking pity on the poor guy all the same. She slid his beer away from his hand and refilled it, before giving it back, “I’ll drop it, I promise. You’re almost as fun to tease as Sammy.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, Sammy can’t be beat,” Meg told Spencer, “He’s got some cute little quirks.”

“Hey!” Becky took offense to that, and turned to Sam, laying a comforting hand on his crossed forearm and asked, “They’re not teasing you for your tics, are they?”

“No,” Sam told her, “they just like to mess with my coffee.”

“That’s cruel,” Spencer said, and Meg laughed, downing the rest of her martini and sliding her empty glass to Lilith, who caught it with practised ease.

“So, Spence,” Meg started, and when she turned a devious grin on him, Sam instantly assumed the worst, “what’s Sam got on offer that made you want to keep him at your place for two whole days?”

“That’s it,” Spencer said, hopping off his stool and walking away from the bar, “I’m leaving. Thanks for the drinks!”

Both Meg and Lilith called after him, cackling when he waved over his shoulder without looking back. Well, Sam thought to himself, taking another beer from Lilith and pushing off the bar, I guess that’s my cue as well. He turned to leave, when a small hand closed over his forearm, Becky stopping him mid stride. “He’s really nice,” she said with a smile.

“I like him too,” Meg added, “he’s a cutie.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, pride once again swelling in his chest, and he smiled at both before striding across the bar to Spencer’s side. He’d found a group friendlier group, it seemed, and was animatedly speaking with Garth about something Star Trek related when Sam joined him. “Feel a littler safer here?” he asked, and Spencer nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, Garth was just telling me where he got the communicator pin,” Spencer said, pointing to Garth’s lapel, before leaning over and whispering so only Sam could hear, “and I figured your attending wouldn’t ask me any uncomfortable questions about your sexual prowess.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Sam whispered right back, “Garth _has_ seen me in the showers.”

Spencer sputtered a startled laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the rest of it and Sam could help but join him, dipping his head down onto his shoulder as he chuckled. Garth looked between the two of them before glancing over at Benny to see if he was also in on the joke, before he asked, “What’s so funny?”

Sam and Spencer answered unanimously, “Nothing.”

**9pm**

Sam could get used to this. He was pleasantly drunk, sitting at a booth near the pool tables with his feet kicked up on the seat, being handed another beer by Cas and picking at a plate of cold nachos, and it was honestly the most relaxing thing he’d done in months. Even as Cas slid into the booth next to him, moving his feet just enough that he could join him, he was comfortable.

The past little while had been a non-stop cycle of work-sleep-repeat, with a little bit of eating thrown in there when he could. Sam couldn’t say when he’d last been able to get drunk and pig out on bar food, but he’d missed it terribly, and he had to admit, the kitschy décor made the whole thing that much better.

Cas and Spencer had gone all out. There were banners tacked across the bar, along the walls and knotted between strings of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. Hundreds of balloons were either taped to the furniture, or floating along the floor, and Sam caught sight of one flying through the air every now and again, from someone kicking it while walking. They were graduation decorations, the amount of which made The End’s interior look more like a party supply store than a dive bar, and over the stage hung a _huge_ banner, congratulating Sam and Kevin on their residency.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Sam told Cas, who turned to him and beamed.

“I’m glad,” he said, picking up a chip and crunching it thoughtfully as he glanced around the room, “I didn’t think we had enough balloons, but I was pleasantly surprised.”

“Cas, if you’d bought anymore balloons, you wouldn’t be able to see the floor.”

“I thought it’d be exciting. Like a ball pit, only one where the balls could explode at any moment.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Sam said, sarcastically.

But Cas either didn’t pick up on the pun, or refused to acknowledge it, nodding his agreement instead, “It would definitely liven the place up.” Chewing on his straw and absently sipping a rum and coke, Cas looked across the room, side eyeing Eldon and Roscoe chatting up Lilith at the bar. He tried to remain nonchalant, his expression as sleepily impassive as ever, but Sam caught they way his shoulders tensed when Eldon glanced over at him, and the way his jaw set a little sharper as the surgeon winked at him, looking him up and down salaciously.

“Why don’t you get Alastair to kick him out?” Sam asked.

“For what? Being present at a party with his coworkers?”

“For being a pig,” Sam argued, even more so when Cas shrugged his shoulders, slumping defeatedly against the backrest of his seat, “for making you uncomfortable, for not taking ‘no’ for an answer.” Cas just looked down at the table and took another drink, rolling the straw between his teeth as he tried to ignore Sam, which only infuriated him further. “Jesus, Cas,” he said, taking the drink from his hands and putting it on the table, so only the straw was left hanging from his friend’s mouth, “you know how to get creeps kicked out of this place. You’ve been doing it for years. Why is he any different?”

“Because he’s the son of the chief of surgery,” Cas said, plunking his straw back into his drink, “He’s rich, he’s famous and he’s got clout, all of which are things I don’t have. If I kick him out, if I piss him off… Sam, I can’t lose my job because of him. We’re at a stalemate, it’s fine.”

“He’s harassing you,” Sam said, and when Cas clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes in dismissal, he added quietly, “he _assaulted_ you.”

“I _know_ ,” Cas hissed, “I didn’t fucking forget.”

“Then—”

“Sam, please—” Cas turned in his seat, his back to Eldon and his eyes on Sam. His expression was heartbreaking, caught somewhere between furious and overwhelmed, and his pleading broke Sam’s resolve instantly. “I appreciate the concern,” Cas said, “but it’s not necessary. I’ve got this. And I know that if ever I don’t, you will.”

“Damn right.”

With a sigh, Cas relaxed a little, leaning in towards Sam. “It was nice of Spencer to agree to help,” he said, “even though he does look like he got lost on his way to a book club meeting.”

“I think he looks beautiful,” Sam said, catching sight of his boyfriend standing by the stage with Kevin and Becky.

“I know you do,” Cas said with a grin, “What’s this I hear about you two sneaking off to fuck in the changeroom?”

“A bald-faced lie.” Sam rolled his eyes, “Lilith caught us in there, yeah. But we were honestly just talking.”

Cas hummed thoughtfully, “I thought that sounded a little out of character.”

“You’re a decent judge of Spencer’s character, now?”

“We talked a bunch before anyone got here. He had the pleasure of meeting Alastair, we swapped dead-beat dad stories and had an interesting conversation about you, of all things.”

Figuring Cas was just teasing him with that last bit, Sam asked, “He told you about his dad?” Cas nodded to the affirmative, and Sam whistled lowly, “I’m impressed.”

“I think he threw it out there to make me feel more comfortable,” Cas said, picking at the plate of nachos on the table, “I told him about raising Jack, which meant I needed to tell him about my mom, which lead to him asking me about _my_ neglectful, absentee father, so he told me about his.” He paused mid-way through biting a chip, quirking his brow at Sam, “He was kind of a dick, right?”

Sam nodded, crossing his arms over his chest, “Yup. You’d have to be to leave your ten-year-old kid alone with their schizophrenic mother.” He pursed his lips, and asked, “We’re pretty messed up, huh?”

Snorting, Cas chuckled, “You’re just noticing this now? This is a genuine pack of misfits, Sammy. We’re all a little fucked.”

“I’ll admit,” Sam said, “it’s nice being fucked up as part of a group.”

“Glad to have you on board,” Cas said with a smile, throwing his arm around Sam’s shoulders and forcing him to hunch down to his height. Basically curled up in a ball, Sam reluctantly let his legs slide off the seat and moved a little closer to Cas, yielding to the insistent tug of Cas’ arm around his shoulder, but he didn’t mind sharing his space. Cas was the older brother that he never got to have, taking up the mantle in Dean’s stead, and while he was more eccentric, a little absent minded and lacking any concept of personal space, he was an excellent friend. Who other than Cas would throw him a party for essentially completing the first year of his job?

“You’re out,” Sam said, tapping the side of Cas’ empty glass, “can I get you another?”

“Meg’s right, you are a gentleman,” Cas said, dropping his glass in Sam’s waiting hand and waving him out of the booth, only to kick his feet up on the seat and adopt the same reclined position Sam was in before he’d intruded, “Make it a double! I’m on the clock!”

**10pm**

“Are all these people your coworkers?” Spencer asked, gesturing across the bar.

The End had filled up pretty fast, Sam noticed. And no, these weren’t all people he worked with. Lilith must have kept the bar open to the public, because he noticed quite a few of Cas’ regular’s scattered about, as well as other employees of The End that he recognized. “No,” he said, shifting in his seat so he could get a look at the whole bar, “these are just customers. This is one of Cas’ nights, so I guess Lilith didn’t want to lose out on the revenue.”

“Oh,” Spencer said simply, before glancing down at himself with a frown, “I’m regretting not taking Cas’ suggestion to change a little more seriously. He’s right; I do stick out like a sore thumb.”

The patrons of The End were an eclectic bunch, comprised of mostly aging punks, college-aged LGBT kids and local Washington suits letting loose outside of work. There was the odd goth, the odd kid who was far too young to be in there, but who Lilith made exceptions for so they could feel they belonged somewhere, and the odd tourist who wandered in by accident and decided to stick around. But they were all different, tangential folks who didn’t fit in with the politicos and lobbyists who frequented many of DC’s other bars.

Spencer had the misfortune of not fitting into either column. He wasn’t stuffy enough to look like your usual, off-hours suit, and he wasn’t different enough to fit in with the rest. But Sam didn’t believe he stood out. Sure, he didn’t look like anyone else there, but no was out of place at The End. That was the point, the reason so many self professed freaks and weirdos flocked there: at The End, everyone was welcome.

Unless, of course, you were a dick.

“You look beautiful,” Sam told him, for the umpteenth time that night (though to be fair, it was the first time to Spencer himself).

“You’re biased,” Spencer said with a hint of a smile. He slid a little closer to Sam, keeping his gaze out into the bar and attempting to seem surreptitious, but Sam was having none of that. He wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him into his side, mustering all the willpower he had in him to keep from swooning as Spencer melted into him, resting his head on his shoulder. “Does that mean Cas is going to be performing?” Spencer asked him.

“Probably,” Sam said, “If the bars open to the public, then he’s the one these people came to see.”

“All these people,” Spencer hummed lowly, “I’d be terrified.”

“Me too, but he’s used to it. He lives for it.”

A quick glance around proved his hypothesis: Cas was nowhere to be found, which either meant he’d retreated to the dressing room to get ready, or he’d found someone to hook up with. Sam was betting on the former.

The crowd was slowly interspersing with their party, playing with the renegade balloons littering the floor and chatting about the banners hung around the bar. He could still pick out everyone from Bethesda: Becky, Meg and Benny were still at the pool table, Garth and Kevin were talking with Missouri, who was _actually_ drinking (he never thought he’d see the day), and Roscoe was seated at the bar, staring into his half empty beer next to Victor and Chuck. And Eldon—

“Where’s Eldon?” Sam asked, sobering up faster than he ever had in his life as he looked around the room again. He couldn’t find him, not even on his third pass, and he hadn’t a moment to address the concerned expression Spencer was shooting his way before a wave of panic washed over him.

He didn’t think Cas was working, or else he would have kept a closer eye on the eldest Styne brother. And now he’d lost sight of him completely. Mentally kicking himself, he stood up from his seat only to be stopped when Spencer wrapped a hand around his forearm and said, “Sam—”

“Did you need me for something?”

Half in, half out of his seat, Sam turned sharply, glaring at Eldon, who was now sitting in their booth on Spencer’s right. “Yes,” he answered, sitting back down, “I wanted to make sure you were behaving yourself.”

“Oh, come on,” Eldon rolled his eyes, “All of my colleagues are here, including a member of my family; I’m not _that_ untoward. I can’t believe you’re still holding that one little incident over my head.”

“It wasn’t _one_ incident,” Sam hissed, grabbing his beer forcefully and gripping it tight, fighting for restraint in the wake of that episode of burgeoning panic, “and it wasn’t _little_.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Eldon said, shrugging nonchalantly, “the folks in HR seem to agree with me. Besides, Cas exaggerates the details.”

Eldon was about ten seconds away from getting a fist to his face, when Sam (and Spencer, who was looking all kinds of flustered) were saved by Kevin, who plopped himself down on Sam’s left side, a tray of shots in hand, saying, “Drink up, Charlie’s buying!”

“That’s kind of her,” Eldon said, picking up a shot and holding it in the air in front of him, staring straight at Sam as he reveled in the unbroken tension between them, “Truce?”

“Yes, please,” Spencer murmured, picking up his own shot and clinking it against Eldon’s, not waiting for the rest of them before downing it in one big gulp.

Oh, Sam wanted nothing more than to wipe that smarmy grin off Eldon’s face. He wanted to take his drink and throw it at him, to drag him outside by the collar and tell him all the things no one else had the guts to. But Cas’ voice rang in the back of his head, and the memory of him pleading with Sam to back off, to leave well enough alone was still fresh enough that he clinked his glass to Eldon’s and conceded, “Truce.”

“Well, you two seem like you’re in the middle of something,” Kevin said, though he made no move to leave. On the contrary, he settled right in, taking his shot and leaning forward on the table, seeming more intrigued than uncomfortable, “And Spence, you look like you’re _literally_ in the middle of it.”

“Apparently,” Spencer said, biting his lip and looking up at Sam imploringly, “I don’t know what _it_ is, however.”

“You do,” Sam murmured, and when Eldon cleared his throat and rocked his empty glass in the air, added, “but we’re not talking about that anymore.”

Catching on immediately, Spencer’s eyes widened. His mouth falling open in surprise, Spencer gripped Sam by the bicep and pulled him closer, leaning up so he could whisper in his ear, “You thought he was with Cas?”

Sam nodded.

“What did he _do_ to him?”

“Nothing!” Eldon answered exasperatedly, “I’m right here, I can _hear_ you!”

About to snap back, the lights in the bar dimmed, the stage lights going up and drawing the attention of the substantial crowd. The noise dropped off for a moment as a tall, thin woman in a three-piece suit, a dusting of makeup along her jaw mimicking a five o’clock shadow, her shocking red hair was gelled straight up, curling into a perfect coif above her hairline, took to the stage, mic in hand. There was a roar of applause and cat calls, and she smiled, relishing in the attention of the crowd for a moment before waving them quiet.

“Ladies, gentleman, and everyone in between,” she said, her voice light and airy, a perfect counterpoint to her outward appearance, and though soft, she was commanding enough to silence everyone in the bar, including those at Sam’s table, whose argument was momentarily forgotten, “I am Abaddon, and I’ve the misfortune of being your host tonight.”

“You’re the host every night!” Someone from the crowd called.

“Exactly,” she said, not missing a beat, “and maybe if you tipped better, I could afford a vacation, you cheap fuck!”

The roar of laughter from the crowd was deafening, and the gentleman who called her out nodded in gracious defeat, sliding a five dollar-bill across the stage. Abaddon caught it under her toe and picked it up, slipping it into her breast pocket and blowing the man a kiss.

“Save some for the main attraction,” she said, gesturing to the curtain at the back of the stage, the neon sign backlighting her in pink, blue and green, “because she doesn’t come cheap.” With all eyes on her, Abaddon smiled wickedly, “Before we introduce our in-house prima donna, I want to say a quick congratulations to the men of the hour, Kevin Tran and Sam Campbell, who just graduated from baby-doctors, to almost-real-doctors!”

Lilith slapped her hand on the house light panel, and the spotlights over their booth came up, blinding all four of them. Sam waved awkwardly as the crowd applauded, random patrons shouting out a range of “congratulations,” to “hey doc, is this a rash or herpes?” When Lilith killed the lights again, Kevin sighed “Thank God,” and Sam couldn’t have agreed more. The limelight was back onstage as the crowd impatiently awaited their entertainment, and as far as he was concerned, it was right where it belonged.

But as Abaddon went into her usual back and forth with the audience, working them up before the main event took to the stage, all Sam could think of was Cas. How had he still agreed to perform, knowing Eldon was in the building? He’d taken steps before to ensure he wasn’t allowed into The End when Cas was present, but this was a work party essentially, and as Castiel had said earlier in the night, he couldn’t really bar Eldon from attending without causing a stink. This would be the first time Eldon was present for one of his performances. Which, in retrospect, explained the double rum and cokes Cas had been downing like water all night.

Now that he was thinking back to it, Sam realized it wasn’t just the drinking that should have tipped him off to Cas’ discomfort. He’d been glued to Meg’s side since he’d arrived, only ever leaving if he was going to be near Sam or Kevin. He’d not left the main bar area except now, and a cursory glance at the dressing room door showed he’d only managed that by stationing Alastair nearby, which in itself was saying something. If Cas trusted Alastair more than you, then you know you’re a real creep.

And Eldon… even separated from him by Spencer, Sam could feel the way he was jittering his leg in anticipation. His eyes never left the stage, and he was sipping his drink slowly, methodically, never blinking for a moment, lest he miss something he’d been dying to see since he first heard of it. God, Sam was certain if they weren’t sitting there with him, if he were alone in that booth on a night where no one who knew him was there, he’d be jerking it like the fucked-up stalker he was.

Spencer laid his hand over Sam’s knee, massaging his thigh gently and Sam suddenly noticed how tense he was. His whole body felt like a wire thread, pulled taut and seconds from snapping, but the reassuring weight of Spencer’s palm on his leg helped soothe him some. “I’m sure Cas wouldn’t be doing this if he were that uncomfortable,” Spencer whispered, trying to lead him to reason, and maybe he was right. Maybe Cas was going through with his usual Saturday routine because he was unflappable, and Eldon being there held no sway over him.

It still didn’t seem right, though.

The audience suddenly erupted in a swell of sound, and Sam looked up just in time to see Abaddon leave the stage, music pounding through the loudspeakers and the curtain parting. Eldon leaned forwards in his periphery but, focussing on Spencer’s steadying hand on his knee, Sam kept staring at the stage as Abaddon announced, “Whether you like it or not: Diana Ditch!”

The bar exploded in a cacophony of sound as Cas (rather, Diana) took to the stage, beautiful as always.

Cas was a handsome man, that wasn’t up for debate. The first time Sam had encountered him at the hospital, he’d been stunned silent for a long moment before Cas said something teasing and just this side of nasty to snap him out of it. He was tall, thin and muscular, with a head of dark, bedraggled hair and piercing blue eyes, and no matter the ridiculous patterned scrubs or strange outfits, he always looked so effortlessly perfect that he more so belonged on the cover of GQ than in a hospital changing surgical dressing.

But as Diana? Cas was divine. Those long runners’ legs were made for fishnets, and the thigh high, brown swede, stiletto boots hugged his calves and accentuated his ass, barely covered in a pair of black panties and a long, blue plaid button up. Buttoned all the way up to the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, it was more casual an outfit than Diana normally came out in, but the peek of bare skin between the shirt and the boots was intimate and so viscerally personal. Her long black hair hung in messy rivulets past her shoulders and her eyes shone a radiant shade of blue, deadly and icy, rimmed with dark, messy shadow and thick, black lashes.

Diana was Cas unbound, with the freedom to do and act whatever she pleased, and you could see it in every part of her being, down to the way she moved. Every step had purpose. She glided across the stage, a confident, magnanimous presence that captivated every person within eyeshot. Her smile lit up the room, savage in its intensity. When she spoke, she retained a little of that gravel in her voice, that hint of Cas that shot through her entire persona, a reminder they were one in the same. And when she took the mic, holding it gingerly in front of her dark red, painted lips, not bothering to introduce herself before going straight into her first number, the audience was awe-struck, stunned into silence even though they’d been watching her bring it every week for the past thirteen years.

She was Lilith’s main attraction for a reason. The only queen in DC who not only could, but actively chose to sing all her numbers live, Diana drew crowds from all over. She stuck to what she loved, 80’s punk-rock divas and moody synth-wave ballads, but her voice was truly unique. Loud, powerful and gritty, but smooth as silk, Cas was a skilled alto, able to adapt most traditionally female vocals to something he could reproduce, something he could make his own. And he was good at it, had been since he was a kid, and to hear him speak of it, he’d be the first to admit it was his one and only god given talent. Diana’s shows were as much small-scale karaoke concerts as they were drag performances.

“Wow,” Spencer breathed, the tension between Sam and Eldon forgotten as he watched Cas up on stage, as he listened to him sing, “ _wow,_ he’s really good!”

Kevin smiled fondly at him, “Cas sings all the time at home and the hospital, I just assumed everyone had already heard him.” He took a sip of his drink and looked back at the stage, “He’s amazing.”

Nodding, Spencer took his hand from Sam’s thigh so he could grab his drink, completely entranced as Cas dropped to his knees without missing a note. He leaned across the stage, uncurling his legs one at a time until he was flat on his back, kicking his legs into the air and wringing another chorus of shouts and catcalls from the crowd.

“He is that,” Eldon chimed in, a salacious grin stretching across his face, “but I doubt half the folks in here came for the singing.” Sam snapped his head to the side, glaring at him over Spencer shoulder, but to his surprise, Spencer tensed along with him, bristling like an angry cat.

“We all know _you’re_ not,” Spencer muttered.

He might not have meant for Eldon to hear him, but from the way his eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing angrily, he most certainly did. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Eldon asked.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Spencer turned his back stage so he could face Eldon head on, and from where Sam was sitting, he could only catch the barest glimpse of the side of his face. But he could see Eldon clearly, and he watched as his expression fell, his glee turning to ire as Spencer asked, “You remember what I do for a living, right? What my job is?”

Eldon scoffed, “You’re a cop.”

“I’m a federal agent,” Spencer snapped back, “more specifically, I work with the behavioural analysis unit.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is that I’m a student of human behaviour.” That only served to confuse Eldon more, who cocked a brow at Spencer challengingly, as though he assumed he was supposed to be impressed. Spencer, however, never played into his hand and instead paused to sip his drink, letting a brief moment of silence hang between them.

Thrown off at Spencer’s sudden dismissal, Eldon puffed out his chest, his expression contorting into something ferocious. But it wasn’t until he started tapping his fingers impatiently off the table that Spencer finally spoke, pointing to his hands as he said, “That right there, for instance, tells me that you’re not accustomed to being kept waiting. That you never learned to be patient, most likely because you were catered to as a child and were never told no.”

He said it so glibly, throwing it out there like pocket change that Sam could practically see the steam billowing from Eldon’s ears. His tapping fingers closed into a fist and he sat up as tall as the space would allow, opening his mouth to give Spencer a piece of his mind—

But Spencer beat him to it. “Therefore, whenever you are in a situation wherein you _are_ told no,” he said, gesturing lazily to the front Eldon was putting up, “you posture and threaten, using your physical superiority to intimidate whoever is opposing you. All because you lack the mental and emotional capability to deal with the feelings of rejection you never experienced growing up.”

“I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“I already told you, I’m a profiler with the FBI,” Spencer interjected, raising his voice only as much as he had to quiet Eldon, “and all night, _you_ have been acting so eerily similar to the criminals I help to catch on a daily basis.”

Sam had never witnessed Eldon speechless before, but to be fair, he wasn’t doing any better. Neither was Kevin for that matter, and while the rest of the bar was focused on Cas’ performance, everyone at their booth was fixated on Spencer as he picked Eldon to pieces.

“I don’t know the details,” Spencer said, shifting closer to Eldon, and while he didn’t move away, his shoulders twitched and Sam could see, just before he schooled his expression, his hesitancy, “but I can hazard a guess as to what you did to Cas.”

“I didn’t—”

“You propositioned him, and he said no. You, not being accustomed to being rejected, lashed out, attempting to intimidate him into giving in. But the longer he held out, the angrier and more frustrated you became, so you escalated.” Spencer was on a roll now, hardly breathing between sentences and Eldon could only sit there silently, dumbfounded as he hit nail after nail on the head, “You kept upping the stakes, making Cas more miserable, until you crossed a hard, fast line. You did something fundamentally wrong, something you could potentially be punished for, meaning the benefits of Castiel finally surrendering were no longer worth the risk.”

Eldon sank back into his seat, still fuming but no longer fighting, “Then what did I do?”

“Covered your own ass by using your superior social and professional status to silence Cas.” Spencer downed the last of his drink, dropping his cup on the table and wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand, “But what I can’t figure out is why you’re still harassing him? Did you not learn your lesson the first time? Or, having had time to think back on what you did wrong, have you worked out a new plan?” Pressing forwards, Spencer ducked into Eldon’s space as he asked, “Do you know what that would make you? A predator. And I _catch_ predators.”

“Is this fun for you?” Eldon scoffed.

“I could ask you the same question. Why are you even here, if not proving my point?”

“You know what?” Shoving the table away from him, effectively pinning poor Kevin to his side of the booth, Eldon stood up, posturing one final time as he threw his hands up in the air, shouting over the roar of the crowd, “Fuck this, and _fuck you_!”

Spencer reached over and picked another shot from Kevin’s tray, only half full thanks to Eldon’s tantrum, and knocked it back, little bothered by the fact Kevin and Sam were staring at him like he’d suddenly sprouted an extra head. Sam could barely string a sentence together, his attention snapping back and forth between Spencer as he returned to Cas’ performance, and Eldon as he stormed out the front door. “Holy shit,” Kevin said, echoing Sam’s internal monologue, “ _holy shit_! Spencer, that was amazing!”

“What did you do?” Sam asked.

“What you couldn’t,” Spencer said, his cheeks bright red now that Eldon was gone, relief breaking through the steady façade he no longer needed to hide behind, “he’s your colleague, not mine. I understand why you two couldn’t say anything, but just couldn’t sit here and listen to him go on like that. I hope I didn’t make things awkward for you.” He winced, running his fingers over his lips, “Or for Cas.”

“No,” Kevin shushed him, waving his hands out in front, “no, that was perfect! God, I’ve been waiting for someone to put him in his place since the day I met him! Do you know he mistook me for a nurse for the first month and a half of my internship? That guy is a fucking dick!”

But Spencer still looked nervous, turning to look up at Sam as he asked, “Will Cas be okay?”

“You’re not Cas’ property, Spence. He can’t control what you say, so he’s not responsible for the things you choose to,” Sam said, tucking his hair behind his ear, “And I’m betting Eldon will be leaving him alone after that smack down. At least for a little while.”

“Well, if he starts up again, let me know,” Spencer said, “I can always come back for round two.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sam kissed him on the forehead. He could relax once again now that Eldon was gone, and Spencer melted into him, wrapping an arm around Sam’s waist as he rested his head on his chest, his attention back on the stage. “You didn’t need to do that, you know?” Sam murmured quietly, so only Spencer could hear.

“I wanted to,” Spencer said, smiling softly, “I’ll never not stand up for a friend.”

**11:30pm**

“You’ve never played pool before?”

Spencer shook his head as he looked for his best shot. “No, I never had occasion. I was 14 in college, so I couldn’t go to bars, which as I understand is where most American’s learn how to play,” he said, walking a slow circle around the table, spinning the pool cue in his hand, “I get the game though, in theory. It’s just math.”

“Everything’s technically math,” Sam said with a grin, watching as Spencer decided on a ball. He licked his lips, the taste of beer that lingered there muted by the sheer amount he’d already consumed, his head floating in a comfortable sea of drunkenness. He wasn’t wasted, he’d not been able to get there since college, but he was definitely inebriated, as evidenced by his willingness to openly leer at his boyfriend, despite the crowd in the bar.

Leaning over the table, Spencer furrowed his brow in concentration, closing one eye so he could properly line up his shot. But his elbow was too high, his cue listing to the right and when he hit the call he came in at an odd angle, without enough force to actually get anywhere. The blue striped ball rolled in the opposite direction he wanted it to, and the cue ball bounced off the far side of the table, rolling into the corner pocket. “I know the rules front to back,” he said as he stood up straight, pouting, “and I understand the core concepts. So, why am I so bad at this?”

“It’s still a sport,” Sam said, putting his drink down on one of the floater table. He circled the pool table to Spencer’s side, plucking the cue ball from its pocket on his way over, “There’s a physical element to it, it’s not all mental.”

“Is that a nice way of calling me clumsy?”

Setting the blue stripe and the cue ball into their previous positions, Sam chuckled. “No,” he said as he stood behind Spencer, his hand against the small of his back, “you just need to adjust to the feel of it. Here—” he pushed gently on Spencer’s back, running his hand up his spine as he encouraged him to lean over the table once again, “let me show you.”

He sounded like the set up to a bad porno, and Spencer rolled his eyes with a huff, but he complied. And immediately, once Spencer was pressed to the table in front of him, Sam regretted this decision. Fuck, he looked good like that. His back was arched beautifully, and when he turned to look at Sam over his shoulder, his hair fell across his face like a curtain, only his eyes and his lips peeking through.

 _Quickly_ , Sam urged himself, setting Spencer’s cue in his hands and positioning them properly. _Get him in position, show him how to take the shot, then you can head over to your dark corner until it’s your turn, you perv._

Trying to convince himself that it had just been a long time, that he wasn’t normally this embarrassingly horny, Sam leaned over Spencer’s folded form, and all that went to shit. He gasped as Spencer pushed back against him, until there was no room left between their bodies, and forcibly exhaled through his nose, laying his shaking hands over Spencer’s. His hands almost blanketed Spencer’s, his chest nearly blocking him from sight and the heat from his body radiated through his clothes, prickling at Sam’s skin as his stomach knotted uncomfortably.

“Focus,” Spencer murmured, nudging Sam in the side.

“Sorry,” Sam said, lining up Spencer’s shot, “you make it hard to function when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, amusement in his voice as he wriggled his hips side to side.

Oh, two could play at that game. Sam flattened himself on top of Spencer, pressing him down from chest to hip and slowly, subtly (he hoped, in the dim light of the bar) grinding his hips into Spencer’s ass, with enough weight behind it to force Spencer up onto his toes.

A shudder ran down Spencer’s spine, sandwiched up against Sam’s chest, and he bucked his hips backwards, biting his lip to stifle a moan. “That’s not fair,” Spencer whispered, gasping when Sam gave in to temptation and leaned ever forward, kissing the side of his bare neck, “Sam, there’s people—”

“You’re right.” Sam sighed, giving one last nip to Spencer’s throat before backing off, correcting his form by smoothing his palms over his back. He put just enough space between then that Spencer could move his cue, and said, “but when we leave—”

He was interrupted by the crack of the cue ball off the blue stripe, which spun beautifully, arcing straight into the corner pocket. Spencer laughed happily, beaming proudly when he turned to Sam and leaning up to whisper in his ear, said, “When we leave, you’re coming home with me, and you’re staying until I get a case, or you go back to work. Whichever comes first.” Backing up with a wide eyed, innocent look on his face, Spencer gestured to the table and asked, “That means I go again, right?”

“You know it does,” Sam said, giving him a swat on the backside that earned him a delightfully cheeky grin as Spencer went back to studying the pool table, their sexually charged exchange momentarily forgotten. _Just need to make it through Cas’ set_ , the reminded himself, leering once again (he couldn’t help it, at this point) as Spencer lined up his next shot.

**1am**

The End was still packed, though the crowd had dispersed a little after Cas finished his set. The lights were still down, and another queen had taken the stage, but the audience had scattered, filling in more of the bar and less crowded against the stage.

That still didn’t account for why six people from their party were currently shoved into a four-person booth.

Crammed onto a curved bench seat near the stage, Sam was hovering on the left end, with Charlie mirroring his position on the right. Meaning Sam got his precious leg room, but poor Spencer had the misfortune of being squished in the middle of the booth. Flanked on both sides by (a still in drag) Cas and Kevin, he could hardly lift his arms to get at his beer (though, from the flush on his cheeks, he was doing just fine without it) and Meg was sitting almost in Kevin’s lap, much to his chagrin. Sam had been chatting amicably with Spencer and Cas while watching the performance, when the rest had suddenly appeared, pushing their way onto the too-small bench seat.

“Spencer,” Charlie said, leaning on her elbows across the table to point at him with one finger, her beer bottle clutched by the rest, “are you hiring?”

“Personally?” Spencer asked, shooting Castiel a questioning look and getting only a shrug in return, “No.”

“Why did you all choose to sit _here_?” Cas bemoaned, elbowing Sam in the side to get him to move over a little more, “there’s an entire bar to choose from.”

“C’mon Clarence,” Meg said, tapping her fingers on the sticky table top, “you should know better. We all want a piece of the fresh meat.” Spencer looked over at her and frowned, pointing at himself, and Meg grinned, “Yes, sweet cheeks. I mean you.”

“Can you get me a job at the FBI?” Charlie reiterated to Spencer, oblivious to the fact the conversation had left her behind, “You got techy people there, right? I’m too good to spend the rest of my life stuffed in a security booth at a dime-a-dozen hospital!”

“He’s not going to get you a job,” Sam answered for him, “it’s the FBI, it’s not like you can just drive into Quantico and hand out your resume.”

“Besides,” Spencer added, “you don’t need to go through me. If you’re good enough to hack into our system, they’d probably offer you a job on the spot.” When the entire table fell silent, turning to look at him incredulously, he said, “That’s how our technical analyst got _her_ job.”

“What’s wrong with working at Bethesda, anyways?” Kevin asked, hip-checking Meg just enough to bump her into Charlie, who was already so intoxicated she almost slid out of her seat, “All you need to do is keep the mainframe running, then you get to play video games all day.”

“But it’s _boring_ ,” she whined, “the most interesting thing I’ve encountered over the past month was Sam’s mystery message.”

Sam froze, his grip on his beer tightening reflexively.

“What mystery message?”

His heartbeat ratchetted up, the sound of his blood pounding in his ears buffering the ambient noise of the bar. He’d completely forgotten about that, too swept up that night in getting to Spencer as fast as his legs would take him, then comforting him as best he could. Charlie had been the one to relay Garcia’s message, but Sam hadn’t thought to do any damage control, or at least as her to keep it to herself.

He didn’t dare look up from the table at Spencer, not even for a second, but out of the corner of his eye he could see him visibly tense, drawing his arms in towards his body subconsciously in a defensive posture, the anxious jittering of his knee rocking the bench.

“Someone was trying to get a hold of Sam, so they hacked into the mainframe looking for his cellphone number.”

It’s okay, Sam reasoned, taking a long drink of his beer. Spencer knew about the message: Sam had told him the very night Garcia had reached out to him via the hospital’s server. And all Charlie knew was that someone had been looking for his contact information, nothing more. It wasn’t the ATF like he’d previously thought. It had just been one of Spencer’s friends getting in touch with him the best way they knew how.

“Do you know who it was?”

“Why wouldn’t they just call the hospital?”

But why was _Spencer_ so tense? Sam could see him shifting uncomfortably in his seat, physically withdrawing from the conversation as best he could, despite still being jammed into the booth. Was it because it was a misuse of government resources? What if the rest of them found out it was his friend from the FBI? _He probably doesn’t want Garcia to get in trouble_ , Sam decided, _that’s all_. And fair enough, but Sam would never rat her out. And there was no one else present who knew who she was. Her secret was safe with them.

Glancing up from the table he finally caught Spencer’s eye, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way, when Charlie added, “Weird right? So, I did a little digging of my own, and guess what else I found?”

Sam and Spencer’s expression fell in unison, both of them holding their breath as they waited for the bomb to drop. Sam wracked his brain, trying as hard as he possibly could to remember what else Charlie might have found. She was good, _too_ good to be trusted on the business end of a keyboard, and if Garcia had left even the tiniest breadcrumb trail behind, Sam was certain Charlie could sniff her out to the source.

And who knows what kind of information they had on him at Quantico.

Charlie leaned over the table, her hands outstretched as she glanced at each one of them successively, amping up the dramatics. “It turns out,” she said, pointing at Sam with one unsteady finger, “that despite being a tall drink of water, Sammy has a bit of a shady past—”

“Okay,” Kevin attempted to interject, his voice shaking nervously as he leaned forward, casting a harried glance at Sam before glaring at Charlie, “that’s enough.”

It didn’t dissuade her, however. She brushed him off, and Sam slumped even lower in his seat, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling sharply from his mouth as the urge to bolt became overwhelming. “No, no you’ll want to hear this,” Charlie said, swaying a little as she shifted away from Kevin, as though she expected him to physically stop her from talking, “it’s fucking gold, I promise.”

 _Oh god, this can’t be happening_. Sam didn’t dare look up at Spencer, not now. He was losing his grip, and he knew that if Spencer hadn’t noticed already, that the second he saw Sam’s face, he’d know this was it. Charlie was about to spill something she _shouldn’t_ know, something Sam had been working towards telling Spencer but just hadn’t been able to yet. And she wouldn’t just be telling Spencer (though that would be bad enough); she’d be telling Meg, and Lilith, and whoever else was listening to their conversation, which was growing ever louder as Charlie attempted to drown out the voices of her naysayers.

Because what else could it be? What other secrets were there in Sam’s past that she could uncover by hacking into the FBI’s database? The FBI had been a part of his life since birth, gathering information on him and his family, following his father and tracking him to no avail. They had stacks of paperwork on him, all of which was supposed to be redacted and sealed when he turned 18, but who knows? Maybe when his father escaped, or when Dean went AWOL, they opened a new investigation. Maybe they had been tracking him without him knowing all throughout college, med school, and even to this day?

“I don’t know,” Meg said, frowning as she glanced across the table at Sam, “I’m all for some good old-fashioned gossip, but Bullwinkle looks like he’s about to have an infarction.”

She was right, he couldn’t handle this. Choking on his last exhale, Sam grimaced and gritted his teeth. A hand came down over his, which was knotted in the fabric of his jeans, and Sam immediately recognized it as Cas. The other man shifted closer to his side, flooding his senses with the smell of makeup and beachy perfume, squeezing his hand tightly to reassure him. “You can leave if you need to,” Cas whispered to him, before snapping sternly at Charlie, “That’s enough.”

Charlie waved her hand dismissively, “He’s just being a drama queen! He’s worried I’m gonna spoil his too-cool-for-school image, which I totally will! Because—”

Sam dug his fingers into his thighs, on the verge of a panic attack as he counted two by two in his head. He couldn’t leave, he could hardly make himself move, but if he stayed he felt like he might pass out. His brain was swirling in a fog of its own making, horrid thoughts coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind and he couldn’t make them stop, couldn’t make them go away.

“Charlie, come on.”

“Sam,” Cas said coolly, pressed completely against Sam’s side as he stroked the top of his hand with his thumb. His touch was a gentle reminder of his presence, a bulwark for Sam to latch on to as reality seemed to be slipping through his fingers. “Sam,” he repeated, so close that Sam could feel the heat of his breath against his skin, “it’s okay. Sam, it’s fine, I promise.”

“Cas is right dude, that’s enough.”

“Just breathe,” Cas murmured, and Sam pressed himself even further into the seat, wishing he could just disappear.

“So, when Sammy was younger—”

“Stop!”

“It’s okay Sam.”

“You stop interrupting!”

“You’re being a jerk, Charlie!”

“He _knows_ , it’s okay.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Charlie exclaimed, slamming her hands on the table in frustration, “You’re all a bunch of babies! All I was going to tell you was Sam was in the freaking chess club!”

Sam snapped out of his funk immediately, opening his eyes and asking, in a low, creaky voice, “What?”

“Yeah,” Kevin frowned, jerking his thumb in Sam's direction, “what he said.”

“Sam was in the chess club all through middle school, high school and then college,” Charlie said, peeved that they’d ruined her big reveal, “he even came 5th in the Southern California Open when he was a sophomore. He’s a big nerd.”

Reeling from the gamut of emotions he’d run through, Sam couldn’t comprehend exactly what she was saying. But Spencer flocked to it, reaching out and grabbing Sam’s hand, staring him in the eyes as he asked, “You play chess?”

Sam nodded mutely, still catching his breath.

“He’s really good,” Kevin answered for him, “that wasn’t the only tournament he’d ever placed in. Also,” reaching across Meg, Kevin swatted Charlie in the back of the head, “That’s not news!”

“Yeah, we all know Sammy’s a huge dork,” Meg said, “if I ever saw him without his nose in a book, I’d just assume he'd died.”

“You’re not going to sleep tonight without playing me first, you know that, right?”

“Watch out Sammy,” Kevin said with a grin, “I think you just stumbled into one of Spencer’s weirder turn-ons.”

“You’re welcome,” Charlie grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Don’t pout,” Meg told her, “general rule of thumb: if more than two people are telling you not to do something, you probably shouldn’t do it.”

Charlie frowned at her, shrugging helplessly, “I don’t know why everyone thought it was so bad! I only followed that hacker back to their server, and they had Sam’s academic record open, that’s all. If anyone should be getting yelled at, it’s them.”

“But who are they?” Cas asked, his hand still clutching on to Sam’s.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said, “honest. They were really good at covering their tracks, I only got a glimpse of the chess thing before they boxed me out entirely.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Sam finally spoke, running a trembling hand over his face.

“It’s not nothing, Sam,” Kevin said, “they have access to stuff they shouldn’t. _Personal_ shit.”

“What if they’re trying to steal your identity?”

“Maybe _you_ have a stalker?”

“It’s fine!” Sam snapped, and when the rest of the table went silent, stunned by his outburst. Quietly, his eyes downcast, he added, “Just drop it.” And they did, but no one dared to speak. Not when Sam was sitting, quietly fuming, a vibrating beacon of nervous energy, and suddenly, he realised he could no longer be there. “Sorry,” he muttered, combing his hair back from his face, “I’m just tired, it’s—it’s been a long couple of months.” Kevin and Cas both looked sympathetic, but his half-assed excuse wasn’t flying with them like it did everyone else at the table.

Standing up, Sam awkwardly knocked his fist on the table, saying, “I’m just—I’m gonna go.” He waved to Cas, who waved back, “Thanks for everything.”

“No problem, Thidwick,” Cas said.

Without a word to the rest of them, Sam turned on his heel, grabbing his jacket from the back of his seat and walking through the bead curtains. “Hey!” Alastair called from the kitchen, where he was snorting lines off a plate with the cook, “Is the party over already?”

But Sam didn’t stop. He only waved him off, flying down the hallway and out into the alley.

The cold, January air hit him like a rock to the face. After hours spent in a hot, steamy bar the wind that ripped through the alley froze his sweat to his skin, and he shivered, goosebumps rising across his bare arms. Sam slipped his jacket over his shoulders and hurried down the icy stairs, the pounding music from the surrounding nightclubs merging into one harried beat that accompanied him to his car.

He wasn’t about to drive, he was far too intoxicated to even think about that. But he slid into the drivers seat all the same, turning it on and starting his heater as he put his jacket on properly. “Fuck,” he whined, dropping his head into his hands. He couldn’t believe he’d freaked out like that… and in front of all those people. Cas and Kevin had seen him panic before, but they lived with him. They’d seen him through the worst of his compulsions, the worst panic attacks and the worst sleepwalking nightmares. Hell, even Spencer was accustomed to it, for the most part. But Charlie and Meg weren’t, and what if any of his other coworkers saw? What they hell were they going to say about him at work?

It hadn’t been that bad, he tried to tell himself. Sure, he thought that maybe Charlie had discovered his dad, and was going to spill the truth to Spencer and Meg, the latter of whom would have the whole hospital on alert by the time he got back, but she didn't. God, he thought starting his residency was going to be tough on its own, he could only imagine how horrible it would have been had Charlie said what he thought she was going to.

There was no point in worrying about it now. It was late, he was drunk and exhausted, and he still needed to walk home. He had gloves in here somewhere, he thought with a frown, fishing around his glove compartment and finding nothing but napkins, gas receipts and a silver switchblade. Grabbing his scarf off the dash, he wrapped it around his neck and leaned into the back seat, casting about the floor for his gloves.

The car rocked as his passenger door was opened, and Sam sat up in a panic, flattening himself against the driver’s side door with a gasp. “Sorry,” Spencer said, holding his hands up bashfully, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He gestured to the passenger seat, “May I?”

Sam nodded, his heart pounding.

How had he forgotten Spencer? Sam mentally kicked himself as he watched Spence climb into the car, wrapping his pea coat tightly around him and blowing into his cold hands. _That was such a dick move, Sam. Yell at him, then leave. What’s wrong with you_?

Like salt on a wound, Spencer smiled sadly and said, “I thought maybe you’d left without me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, the words spewing from him so fast they almost merged together, “Spencer, I never would have—I mean, I just… I needed to get out of there. I—"

“It’s okay,” Spencer said, tentatively reaching out and lacing his fingers through Sam’s, his hand so cold it stung Sam’s skin, “I get it. I’m not upset.”

“But you are.” Sam could see it. He was trying to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and the hurt it was buried beneath made Sam feel like an even bigger lout than before, “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Curling his legs underneath him, Spencer looked out the windshield and across the parking lot, his face cast half in darkness from the streetlight overhead, “I should be the one saying I’m sorry. I should have told you at Christmas—I wanted to, but I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

Sam blinked owlishly. _What was he talking about?_ “What did you want to tell me?” he asked.

“That I know,” Spencer murmured.

The way he said it, with such shame and gravitas, only deepened Sam’s confusion. For the life of him, he couldn’t decipher what it was Spencer was getting at, so he cast out a blind line, asking, “You knew I play chess?”

“No!” Turning to look at him finally, squeezing his hand so tight it was just shy of painful, Spencer reiterated, firmer this time, “Sam, _I know_.”

And that right there… that sounded familiar. What was it Cas was saying to him, just moments ago, when he was spiraling into a panic? “Just breathe, Sam,” he’d told him, squeezing his hand just like Spencer was now, his press on nails digging into Sam’s palm, “it’s alright, _he knows_.”

“Know what?” Sam asked warily. He was fitting the pieces together, but slowly. Cas must have known what he was worried about, what he thought Charlie’s secret findings were… did that mean—

“I know this isn’t your brothers car,” Spencer said, forcing the words past his lips, as though it pained him to do so, “I know there’s a toy army man stuck in the ashtray in the back seat. I know there’s a secret cache in the trunk. And I know if I lifted the mat underneath my feet, I’d find your initials: SW, because your last name wasn’t always Campbell— it was Winchester.”

_No._

Sam snatched his hand back, pressing himself up against the driver’s door as his vision blurred at the edges.

“Sam, I’m so sorry.”

His lungs expanded, but it felt like he couldn’t get any air.

“I should have told you sooner.”

Spencer sounded so far away now, the blood rushing in his head sounding like the swell of the ocean.

“But you were working through it on your own and you were making progress, and I didn’t—”

“How long?” Sam asked, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his voice steady.

“Please don’t—”

“How long!?”

Flinching away from him as Sam’s shout reverberated off the walls of the car, Spencer looked down at his hands, now curled in his lap, and said, “Since the second night you stayed over.”

_No!_

Sam was out of the car within seconds, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Sam, wait!” he heard Spencer cry, the door opening and closing as Spencer followed behind him, but Sam didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Instead, he ducked his chin to his chest, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walked as fast as he could through the alley, breaking out onto the street.

Compared to the dim light of the back alley, the rows of street lights were damn near blinding. There was a bit of spillover from nearby bars, people out for smokes or waiting for cabs, but he ducked around them, blocking out Spencer’s voice as he called after him. He’d give up eventually, Sam surmised. At least he hoped he would. He honestly didn’t know how he could contain himself if Spencer insisted on following him.

 _How could he? How_ could _he!?_ The thought ran through his head, over and over like some twisted incantation. Spencer had known all this time, and he’d kept it from him. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much he needed clarification for, but it was buried, drowned out beneath the steady beating _how, how, how?_

He cut through throngs of partiers, past rows of drunk college girls laughing and sobbing in the falling snow, as he walked down the main road. It was cold, and the thin frosting of powdery snow on the ground provided no traction, his boots slipping across the pavement as Sam turned off onto a gravel path into a nearby park. He lived nearly ten blocks away, but if he cut through the small, wooded area here, he could shave a few minutes off his walk, and he wanted nothing more than to be home. Separated from Spencer, from his friends and from the world at large, so he could sleep it off, pretending that this never happened, at least until the harsh light of tomorrow morning.

But he wasn’t that lucky. He never was. There was no one to be seen as he entered the park, but as he passed the treeline, he heard another set of harried footsteps pick up on the gravel behind him. They were running, catching up quick, and Sam could hazard a guess who it was, even before Spencer reached out and grabbed him by the forearm, stopping him in his tracks. “Sam,” he pleaded, “stop, please, I can—”

Sam shook his hand off roughly, turning abruptly and fuming. He was livid, trembling with barely contained anger, and even the sight of Spencer’s panicked, teary eyes did little to quell the hurt raging inside of him. “How?” he spat, the words that were rioting in his mind tumbling from his lips, “How _could_ you?”

“I didn’t—” Spencer stammered, his voice cracking around a suppressed sob, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Backfired a little, didn’t it?”

“Just a bit.”

“How do you know?” Sam asked, scowling at Spencer through the darkness, the dim park lights and the cloud covered moon doing little to illuminate the path, “How _much_ do you know?”

Spencer tapped his temple, “Eidetic memory. I came across John Winchester when I was in school, and it stuck. Once I knew your brother’s name was Dean, and you told me he’d been institutionalized, I—I just, pieced together the rest.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat, and when he spoke, it was no more than a wheeze, “You know everything?”

“Everything.”

_Fuck, no._

“Great,” Sam scoffed, carding his hands roughly through his hair, his shoulders tensing, pulling up towards his ears as tried to hold back, tried to reign himself in, “So, you know my father is a serial killer?”

Spencer nodded, biting his quivering lower lip.

“You know that he brainwashed Dean into helping him?”

Another nod.

“You know he made us believe in monsters, trained us to be soldiers, dragged us across the country as he taught us that boogeymen were real and always trying to kill us?”

“Yes,” Spencer rasped, sniffling softly.

“How—” Sam’s eyes welled up, and he rubbed at them harshly, “You’ve known all this for as long as we’ve been dating. You kept it a secret from me the whole time. You saw how much it fucked me up, how badly I struggled trying to find a way to tell you, and you still decided to pretend you didn’t know? How could you—” he ground his jaw and turned away, “You know what? Save it. I don’t care.”

“Damn it!” Lurching forwards, Spencer grabbed his wrist again, but this time he held on tight. Even when Sam wheeled around, trying to break his hold, Spencer held on with both hands. He glowered at Sam challengingly, even though his eyes spilled over with tears, “Just let me explain!”

His eyes widening in shock, Sam tried to wrench his arm back again, but to no avail. Spencer had a grip like a vice when he wanted to, and he did not want to give in. “Let go,” Sam commanded, twisting his arm once more, but Spencer didn’t budge, “I mean it, Spencer. Let me _go_.”

“Not if you’re going to run away,” Spencer said, gripping ever tighter as Sam shook his arm, a thrill of panic welling inside of him at the realization he was caught. Cornered. He needed to leave, needed to run, needed to be home, inside and safe with his salt and silver and traps. He couldn’t—

“Let go,” he pleaded.

“No!”

Something inside him snapped, and Sam shoved Spencer away from him, wrenching his hand off his arm at the same time and sending him falling backwards onto the ground. He landed hard on his backside, letting out a tiny gasp of pain as gravel scattered in every direction, loose powdered snow kicking up and wafting in the air around him.

 _God damn it_.

“Shit,” Sam whispered hysterically, running a hand down his face, looking at Spencer but not really seeing him. “Sorry, fuck—I’m, I—” he stammered, casting around for something, anything to do, some kind of direction to go in but he was lost in a fog of his own making, and all Sam _could_ do, the only thing he could _ever_ do, was run. He turned on his heel, staring down the path and he lifted his right foot, intent on booking it home, if only to put some distance between him and his accountability, between him and this awful, gnawing guilt he’d gotten so good at ignoring.

But when he went to lift his left foot, to jolt forwards into a sprint, a hand wrapped around his ankle. He swerved, catching himself on the blade of his right foot and half turning, but an arm coiled around his hips, moving with the motion of his body and pulling him backwards. Spencer kicked his leg out, still crouched on the ground, and before Sam could blink he was on his back in the snow dusted gravel with the air knocked out of him, his hands pinned over his head, Spencer straddling his hips. Sam tried to struggle, but Spencer had his wrists locked tight, and when he tried to buck him off, Spencer moved with the motion of his hips, stilling him effortlessly. _Right,_ Sam thought in a moment of surprised clarity, _FBI agent_.

“Stop,” Spencer ordered, his expression hardened into something Sam didn’t recognize, and he couldn’t help but comply. “I understand you’re angry, and I’m sorry that I kept this from you,” he said, his grip loosening slightly as Sam stopped struggling, “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready, and that by bringing it up I’d only make things worse. I thought it was the _talking_ that was difficult for you, but tonight, Cas—he told me what you’d been struggling with was my _knowing_ , and I am so, so sorry.” His façade slipped a little, tears dripping from his fluttering lashes, smattering Sam’s jacket, “I thought I was helping you, but I was just making things worse. God, I never meant to hurt you!”

“Hurt _me_?” Sam whispered, before huffing in disbelief, “You’re worried about hurting _me_? But how could you stand the sight of me? How could you care about me? Want to be with me? Sleep with me?” He shook his head, “I’m a murderer.”

Sitting back on his heels, Spencer stared down at him confusedly. “No,” he said, taking his frozen hands from Sam’s wrists and wringing them in front of him, his expression distant as he combed through the Rolodex of John Winchester in his brain, “no, you never participated in any of the murders. It was your father, and your brother assisted him, but you never—”

“I never killed a person with my bare hands,” Sam said, and though his hands were now free, he hadn’t the strength left to struggle. He was past that now, his panic broken through to disassociation, and he felt as though he were watching them in the third person, separated from their conversation enough that he could say what he never thought he could, “that much kept me out of prison. But I still let them die. I always knew they were there, and I never once helped them.”

“That’s not true,” Spencer said, backing up a little so Sam could sit up, both of them still huddled on the cold, wet ground, “You were a child. You’d been manipulated since birth to believe in things that weren’t real. No one could ever have expected you to fight back against a psychopath the likes of your father. And in the end you _did_ help them: you were the one that turned him in.”

“But I—” Sam covered his eyes with his hands as a sob wrenched itself from his throat, “I always knew. On some level, I knew the people he hunted weren’t monsters. I knew the drills and the incantations were bogus, that werewolves and vampires were just fairy tales. I _knew_ he was murdering people, but still, for twelve years I said _nothing_. Until I couldn’t ignore it any longer.” Looking up at Spencer, his vision blurring through the unwanted, unbidden tears in his eyes, he whispered to him, confessing one of his darkest, most shameful secrets, “All of those people, all his victims? They died because I was afraid. Because I’m a fucking coward.”

“No.” Spencer grabbed his cheeks in his hands, looking him dead in the eye as he said, “They died because your father  _murdered_ them. He made that choice, and that’s on him. The blame that you feel? It’s survivors guilt. It’s a symptom of PTSD that makes a person blame themselves for surviving a traumatic event when others didn't.” He paused, biting his lip thoughtfully, “And I think I’m starting to better understand where your OCD is stemming from.”

“They’re his rituals,” Sam explained, “the tapping, the counting by twos? Dad used to make me double check that everything was set, every night. I’d lay out salt lines on the doors and windows, strip and clean all our guns, sharpen our knives, paint sigils on the walls to protect us from all kinds of shit that was never really there. And he’d make me count it out, over and over, until he was satisfied. Until he was convinced we were safe.”

“And now you need to do it,” Spencer said, “just to feel secure. Or else—”

“Or else my mind convinces me that something horrible will happen,” Sam finished for him, “that someone will get hurt again, or worse.” He sighed, shrugging his shoulders, “My therapist says I’m making progress, but I still can’t stop the worst of my compulsions.”

“You’ll get there.” Spencer’s fingers were chilled to the bone, and that cold seeped into Sam through his cheeks, quelling the fire burning beneath his touch, anxiety and fear sputtering as they died down into embers, “And if you don’t, we can manage.”

“We?” Sam asked, “I’m fucked up, Spencer. You understand that, right? I’m broken, and even if I get better, that much will never change. It’s in my blood, and from the day I was born I was fucking cursed with it. Face it: you shouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

“But I _do_!” Spencer cried, taking Sam by surprise, “I’ve known this whole time, nothing that you’re telling me is new! And this whole time, even knowing who you are, knowing about your past, I’ve wanted you. I don’t know how else to convince you I care about you, Sam. With all your faults included. All your baggage.” He wiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve, “I don’t give a shit about your dad; I just want to _be_ with you!”

Spencer crumpled forwards, burying his face in Sam’s chest, and Sam caught him with open arms, holding on as tight as he could muster. They must have been quite the sight: two grown men, sitting together on a path in the middle of a park, holding each other and crying in the snow, but he didn’t care. Not even his dad walking up to them could convince him to let go of Spencer in that moment. Sam held him as he cried, rubbing his cheeks against Sam’s lapel, his entire body trembling from the cold, and suddenly, it was as though a giant weight had been lifted.

What he’d most worried about had come to light, and it went nothing like he expected it to. Spencer didn’t need him to leave, didn’t need time to think. He didn’t cut ties with Sam all together, and he didn’t berate him, calling him every horrid thing he already thought he was, and picking at all his insecurities, down to their roots.

He’d known this whole time, and it didn’t make a difference: he still cared for him, still wanted him.

It was exhilarating.

“I feel so stupid,” Sam murmured, his breath puffing in frosty little clouds next to Spencer’s ear, “I should have told you months ago.”

“I should have, as well,” Spencer said, his voice muffled against his jacket.

“I’m sorry I ran off.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“I’m sorry I shoved you.”

“I’m sorry I tackled you.”

Sam chuckled, “ _That_ was impressive.” He maneuvered Spencer back a little, brushing away the lingering tear tracks from his cheeks, “Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“Morgan makes me take the close combat qualifying exams every year,” Spencer said, pushing his hair out of his face and taking a deep, cleansing breath, “some of it stuck.” He shuddered, pulling his arms in around his body, and as Sam reached up, sweeping the thin layer of snow from his hair, he asked, “What now?”

“Now I’d like to get you in from the cold,” Sam said, motioning for them to stand up, but Spencer hesitated.

“Are you still angry?”

Sam shook his head, “No. I’m relieved actually.” Running his hands up and down Spencer’s thigh’s, trying to work some warmth into them, Sam had one last, grating insecurity he needed to address, “Do you—” he paused, staring down at the ground, not sure he could ask if he was looking Spencer in the eye, “Do you feel safe with me?”

There was no hesitation, no doubt in Spencer’s voice as he answered, “Always.” Climbing off the ground, Spencer offered his hand to Sam, who took it graciously, letting Spencer pull him to his feet. “Do you still feel the same about me?” Spencer asked.

“Yes,” Sam answered, but that was only a half truth. His heart was full, overflowing with love for him, flooding through his very pores and knowing that, for the first time since Jessica, someone he cared for truly knew and accepted him made him want to shout it in the streets. But the words stilled on his tongue; he knew they were true, but it just wasn’t right. It wasn’t time.

So instead, sweeping Spencer up into his arms, Sam channeled every fibre of that feeling into a kiss. Pouring all of that love and desire into that part which connected them, breathing silent vows against Spencer’s mouth until his lungs ached in tandem with his heart, lamenting they couldn’t subsist on his lips alone.

When he pulled away, Spencer was trembling, though this time not from the cold. When he opened his eyes, still red-rimmed and glassy, Sam could see that same sentiment in them. Spencer clung to his arms fiercely, afraid to let him go to far, and his face was like an open book: he’d been just as afraid to lose Sam, as Sam had been to lose him.  “Come home with me,” Spencer said, and it wasn’t a request.

“Always,” Sam murmured, pecking him once more on the lips before taking his hand, and letting Spencer lead him down the path.


	2. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... y'all remember that random pairing that jumped out at me while I was planning this? Yup, you'll find it down there. Here's hoping this crack ship will sail!
> 
> Here you go, have fun with her!

**January 14 th, 4am**

It was cold, still pitch dark and the streets were completely devoid of any life. Just the way he wanted it.

Though he hadn’t been welcomed in their bed, Aaron graciously waited, lying on his back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling until he was certain Haley had gone to sleep. She was already furious, and knowing he’d left the house to walk around downtown, in the middle of a freezing January night would only rekindle her ire. He didn’t want a repeat of their fight, and he certainly didn’t want to put anymore pressure on her than necessary. She’d said all she wanted to as they were cleaning up from dinner, but Aaron knew there was still more bubbling under the surface that she just couldn’t put into words.

Besides, it wasn’t her fault he couldn’t sleep.

He just needed air, he told himself as he wandered down the path in their neighbourhood park. The tension that had been festering in their house had come to a head that night, but it hadn’t dissipated. It had been clinging to them, growing like mould in the walls and no matter how many holes they punched in them, they never found the root of it.

Haley was angry he was never home but when he offered, she wouldn’t let him stay behind.

He was frustrated that she didn’t understand his loyalty to his team but when she was the one to stay at home and care for their son, he couldn’t hold it against her.

They could have the same argument time and again, and it wouldn’t change the growing rift between them, because they refused to say what was fundamentally wrong. They hid behind minor annoyances, tiny grievances that seemed so huge at the time, but in retrospect were trivial, fleeting things.

This had been the worst so far, though. Jack had been sitting in his booster at the table when they began needling each other, just a passive aggressive back and forth, but when Haley finally snapped at him, Jack started to cry. They’d been careful in the past to keep their disagreements civil, and at worst, to keep their fights out of sight of Jack. But this time they’d jumped at each other, gone for the jugular right in front of their son, and as Haley snapped him up and ushered him away to his room, Aaron could see in her eyes she was starting to think all the hurt they were going through wasn’t worth it.

And that terrified him more than anything, because he couldn’t think of a solution.

Running a hand over his eyes, Aaron paused for a second in the middle of a wooded path. The streetlamp overhead flashed in and out, the bulb slowly dying but it’s light shone through the sparse, shimmering fall of snow. Big, fat snowflakes melted on his cheeks and in his hair, and he lamented not wearing a hat for a moment, when suddenly, he felt someone walk past him. They took him by surprise; despite walking on a gravel path, they were so quiet that if they hadn’t brushed the arm of his jacket as they passed him, Aaron would never have known they were there.

He opened his eyes, squinting through the flickering light. It was just a man, about as tall as him with dark hair and horribly ripped jeans, carrying a backpack on one shoulder and wearing a (incredibly weather inappropriate) leather jacket. His combat boots should have been crunching off the gravel, sending tiny bits of rock rolling away in wake of his steps, but somehow, he was silent. Graceful and quiet, like the careful stepping of a cat.

It was odd that someone else was out here so late. This was a residential neighbourhood, and most of the people who lived there were nine-to-fivers with kids, home and in bed by ten-thirty at the latest. But then again, this guy didn’t look like he belonged there at all. Aaron spotted the tears in his jeans right off, but there was also a hole in the sole of his right boot, and his leather jacket was worn with age. Even his backpack, which looked like something a middle schooler would use, was frayed along the straps.

As he watched this stranger walk away from him, Aaron noticed something fall from his pocket and onto the ground, landing soundlessly in a heavy patch of snow. “Excuse me!” he called, frowning when the man didn’t stop. It was his wallet, and when Aaron picked it up, held it over his head and called louder this time, "Hello!”

Again, the man didn’t stop.

In fact, he seemed to start walking a little faster.

Aaron started walking after him, wallet in hand. He was shouting as loud as he could, so was this guy ignoring him? Or could he not hear him? He certainly knew someone was following him; his posture had completely shifted, his shoulders hunching over and his hands in his pockets, like he was getting ready to run any second. “Hey!” Aaron yelled, having to jog now to keep up with him, “hey, wait a second!”

The second Aaron sped up, the stranger took his hands from his pockets and broke out into a full-on sprint.

 _This is ridiculous_ , Aaron told himself, _just go home! He probably has ID in his wallet, you can return it to him later._

But his feet propelled him, his body on autopilot as he ran after the poor guy, his sneakers squeaking in the snow as they left the gravel path and stepped onto the tarmac in the park proper.

The cold air burned his nostrils, made his lungs ache and the slacks he was wearing were not conducive to running, but Aaron couldn’t help himself. He ran like a mad man, still calling after the guy in front of him, who was leading him on what looked like a manic chase through the park. He booked it out of the treeline and immediately swerved around the fountain, only to take a hard right halfway around and vault over a park bench. He landed shin deep in a pile of snow, but he kept running, lifting his knees as high as he could to dash across an open field, swerving around trees left and right, before turning on his heel and sprinting for the public bathrooms.

That last turn cost him some distance, and before he could make it to the large, cement building that housed the washrooms, Aaron closed the gap between them, reaching out and clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder as he called breathlessly, “Stop, okay, I’ve got your—”

He was interrupted by a fist to the face.

Blinding pain staggered him for a moment, forcing him to shut his eyes as he clapped a hand over his bleeding nose, but he still heard clear as a bell, when the guy yelled, "No hablo inglés!"

“I’ve got,” Aaron coughed, groaning as he fought to open his eyes, “I’ve got your wallet. Tu billetera.”

Holding the wallet up in the air, he finally caught a glimpse of the man’s face for the first time. Contorted in fear and anger as it was, it was a handsome face. A strong jaw, soft cheeks and brilliantly blue eyes that were currently glaring at him, and though he was panting, his breath wafting in front of his face shadowing it from Aaron’s sight, he was still measurably composed.

That is, until he spoke again.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you!?” the stranger demanded, snatching his wallet out of Aaron’s hand and shoving it in his backpack.

“You—” Aaron stammered, not having expected to be reprimanded, especially with a (most likely broken) nose, “you dropped your—”

“So?” the man asked, throwing his hands out to his sides, “Why the hell were you chasing me!?”

“Why were you running?” Aaron snapped back, confused.

“Because you were _chasing me_!”

“I only chased you because—”

“Oh, for fucks sake—” the man interjected, before dropping his head into his hands with a groan, “Okay.” He looked up from his hands and stared Aaron, “You were just trying to return my wallet? No funny business?”

“No funny business,” Aaron tried to say, but the swelling in his nose had increased dramatically, and it all came out as one big, blubbering string of words.

The stranger rolled his eyes and unzipped his backpack, pulling out a scarf before reaching for Aaron’s face. Aaron stepped back, hesitant to let this guy touch him, but his uncertainty was met with a loud, dramatic sigh. “I’m a nurse,” the guy explained, twisting at the waist so Aaron could see the Bethesda Hospital nametag tacked to his backpack, “and I’d be a pretty shitty one if I let you leave without stopping the bleeding, at least.”

He didn’t know this man, his interactions with him so far had been chasing him through a park and getting socked in the face, and Aaron _knew_ he should just turn around and go home. But as they’d been standing there, Aaron dripping blood through his fingers onto the snow below their feet, the man’s anger had faded, and below the annoyance that replaced it was a deep well of guilt. He couldn’t even muster a frown anymore, and when the man attempted to reach for him again, he let him, lest he be forced to stare at those big, sad eyes until he drowned in them.

“Castiel, right?” Aaron blubbered, wiping his hands off on one end of the scarf as Castiel began dabbing away blood with the other. When that earned him a sharply arched brow, he explained, “It’s on your name tag.”

“Yeah,” Castiel said, tilting Aaron’s chin up with a firm, but gentle press to his jaw, frowning as he examined his nose, “but no one calls me that. Just Cas is fine.”

Aaron hissed when Cas pressed against the bottom of his nose with the scarf, “That’s a hell of a right hook you’ve got, Cas.”

“My grandpa was a Navy SEAL and I wasn’t popular in high school,” he said by way of explanation, and squinted at Aarons face, trying to see through the dark before giving up with a huff, “it’s too dark to see anything.” He looked around, before gesturing to the bathrooms, “Do you mind?”

“You don’t need to do this,” Aaron said, his face throbbing. He felt terrible for having scared this guy, and in retrospect, running after him was stupid. But he didn’t have time to ponder why he’d gone and done it when Cas grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the public washroom.

“It’s fine,” he grumbled, sitting Aaron down on a bench by the sink while he wet the end of his scarf, “serves you right for chasing me through the park at four in the goddamned morning. I thought you were trying to mug me.”

“That wasn’t one of my brightest moments.” Aaron let Cas tilt his head back, keeping still as Cas mopped up the blood and examined his injuries, “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

“What are you doing out so late, anyways?” Cas asked, his touch firm yet gentle, “I never see anyone out here in the winter.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” Cas hummed, nodding his head knowingly, “problems at home?”

Aaron tried to frown, but a twinge of pain reminded him that was probably a bad call. “Perceptive, aren’t you?” he asked instead, and Cas grinned wryly.

“With my job, you need to be,” he said, rinsing off the scarf and wringing it out in the sink, “dentists are the only other professionals people lie to more than their nurses. You get accustomed to sniffing out the truth.”

“Is that where you were coming from?” Aaron asked, “you’re a long way from Bethesda.”

Cas shook his head, his scarf looped over the side of the sink as he worked on scrubbing his hands clean. “No, I’m actually walking home from my _other_ job. I work at a bar downtown some nights. I’m back at the hospital tomorrow morning, though.”

“It’s already tomorrow morning,” Aaron said, chuckling when Cas just shrugged.

“I was hoping to get a couple of hours in,” he said, a smile curling at his lips, “but my job never stops, apparently.”

He had a nice smile, Aaron decided. An infectious one too, as despite his throbbing face, Aaron couldn’t help but return it. “I get that,” he said, gesturing around the empty bathroom, “it’s why I’m out here with you, instead at home in my warm bed.”

“Glad to be of service,” Cas said, tossing the scarf in the trash can, “nothing’s broken, but you should take a couple ibuprofen when you get home to help with the swelling.” He looked apologetically over his shoulder, “Sorry, but you’re probably going to have a pair of black eyes.”

“That’s going to be a fun conversation with my wife,” Aaron grumbled.

“It’ll liven up your Sunday morning breakfast, that’s for certain.” Looping his bag over his shoulder, Cas gave Aaron a once over and asked, “Are you feeling alright? Not dizzy or nauseous?”

“No, thank you.”

“Do you need me to walk you home?”

“I’m fine,” Aaron said, waving off his concern, “I live here in Forest Hill. It’s about a ten-minute walk away.”

Cas hummed thoughtfully, “Yeah, you can walk yourself home, then. I’m in the opposite direction, in Brightwood.”

“That’s quite far from here,” Aaron looked down at his watch, “and the trains aren’t running for another three hours. Would you like a ride?”

“In what?” Cas asked laughingly, and his expression shifted into something much younger, almost playful, “Got an invisible plane, Wonder Woman?”

Aaron couldn’t help himself. “That was an invisible jet,” he said, and Castiel really laughed that time, not just a chuckle or sarcastic huff, but a _real_ laugh. One that knocked him back a couple steps, as though it took him by surprise, and Aaron, to his noses agony, smiled even wider, adding that, “and I don’t know how to fly it.”

“Stop,” Cas held up a palm in warning and tried his best to look stern, but he was spilling over with mirth, the opposite of the man who’d just punched Aaron in the face a moment ago, “a comedian, you are not.”

“I thought that was pretty good,” Aaron said, laughing when Cas rolled his eyes again, “that was probably the first joke I’ve cracked in at least ten years.”

“Well then, I’m honoured to have hear it.” Stepping closer, Cas offered Aaron a hand up, “Doesn’t make it less terrible.”

Grabbing Castiel’s hand, the first thing Aaron noticed was how cold they were. It was a little warmer in the bathroom than it was outside, but Cas’ hands were like ice, so cold that they stung Aaron’s skin. The second was how slim they were, long fingered and dry, most likely from the winter weather and the constant hand washing they endured, Cas being a nurse and all. But his grip was strong as he hauled Aaron to his feet, his skin, though parched, was soft and when Aaron was finally standing, they were so close, maybe a foot apart, only separated by those same hands that were clutched between them.

 _How old is he_ , Aaron wondered? From afar, in the dim light of the park lights, he’d looked about Aaron’s age at least. But up close, it was clear he was much younger, and what Aaron thought was age was just exhaustion, evidenced by the deep bags under his eyes and the sallowness of his skin. He was no more than thirty, Aaron could tell that much just from looking at him, only able to pick up the barest hint of lines worn around his eyes. Laugh lines.

There was also something dark, like black makeup or mascara smudged along his lashes, that looked as though he’d attempted to scrub it off, and his eyes, despite his exhaustion, were a brilliant, endless blue. They were magnetizing, bedroom eyes as his grandmother would have called them, and Aaron wasn’t prepared for the shock of attraction that shot through him, curling his toes and driving him to grip Cas’ hand even tighter.

_What the hell was wrong with him?_

Aaron stepped back, dropping Cas’ hand like it had burned him. “I—” he coughed into his fist, looking towards the door, “I should really be going home.”

“Me too,” Cas said, either not noticing Aaron’s changed demeanor, or ignoring it altogether. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and frowned at the backlit screen, “My kid’s been home alone all night, and he hasn’t called once.”

A kid. That was interesting. “No news isn’t good news, I take it?”

Cas smiled fondly as he snapped his cell phone shut, “Not when we’re talking about a lone fifteen-year-old with the house to themselves and my credit card at their disposal.”

“See,” Aaron said, waggling his finger in the air, “that sounds like your mistake, and his gain.”

“Nah,” Cas said, and when he looked back at Aaron he was still wearing that proud grin, one he could empathize with, because he was certain he looked the same whenever he talked about his son, “Jack’s a good kid. I just worry he forgot to eat, or go to bed, or something silly like that.”

Wait. “Your son’s name is Jack?” Cas nodded his head, and Aaron chuckled disbelievingly, “So is mine. He’s not fifteen, though, he’s two.”

“Oh, that’s the best age!” Cas was grinning ear to ear now. Apparently, they’d stumbled onto his favorite topic of conversation, which was quite the coincidence, as it was Aaron’s as well, “They love you so much when they’re little.”

“That goes away?”

“Does it ever.” Waving his hands in front of him, Cas backpedaled, “Only for a bit, though! They hate you from seven to eleven, but they start to come back around to you at like… thirteen?”

“Great,” Aaron said, almost running a hand over his eyes before he remembered his injury and thought better of it, “is there a way to keep them from growing?”

Cas shrugged, “You can try bottling him. Might not fly with the missus, though.”

He had this deadpan way of talking, no matter what he said, and it threw Aaron completely off kilter. He sputtered a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand and accidentally hitting himself in the nose which, even though it hurt, made him laugh even more. He had to close his eyes, tears of pain and amusement welling in the corners, and when he heard Cas start to laugh as well, it only got worse. He ended up bowed forwards, cracking up like a crazy person over the stupidest joke he’d heard in a while. All because the kid who said it had done so with no inflection, without changing his expression, and so nonchalantly you’d think he was talking about commuter traffic.  

“Watch yourself,” Cas said, clapping his hands-on Aaron’s shoulders and helping to steady himself. He squinted in the dim light and tilted Aaron’s head back so he could examine his nose, “Stop smacking yourself in the face, dude, or you’re gonna get another nose bleed.”

“I’m fairly certain I didn’t just _get_ a nose bleed,” Aaron said, still hiccupping for breath, but calming some.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cas swatted his critique away like an annoying fly, “I busted your nose, whatever. Anyways, you should probably go home and think up something to tell your wife.”

“You’re right.” Aaron glanced down at his watch again. It was almost five, which meant Haley would be waking up in an hour. “I was serious about that ride,” he said, looking pointedly at Cas, “If you wanted to walk with me, I could get my car and drive you home.”

Cas looked like he was considering it for a moment, and Aaron didn’t know what was more concerning: that he was offering to drive a complete stranger (who, for all intents and purposes, assaulted him) home, or that he was actually anxious he would say no.

He was a funny kid. A lot of his mannerisms and facial expressions reminded Aaron of Reid, but he was also just… curious. What kind of person his age had a fifteen-year-old kid? Where was the mother? Was there even a mother? Was there another parent? If he had a decent job as a nurse, why was he still working at a bar? Why did he look like he lived out of the back of his car? 

But Aaron was saved from his dilemma when Cas said, “No, that’s alright.”

 _Thank god_.

“You’re sure?”

Cas nodded, “If I cut through the park it’ll only take me twenty minutes.” He held up a hand to stop Aaron when he went to object, “And I think I’ve already demonstrated that I can take care of myself.”

“I suppose you have.”

They both went quiet, Castiel staring down at his shoes as Aaron tried to look anywhere else. He hovered near the bathroom door, his fingers itching to open it and get him out of there, but he couldn’t. As much as he knew he should, his feet felt rooted to the ground. Because here was this kid, a complete stranger, someone who had punched him in the face and then stayed to care for him, who was such a compelling enigma that he didn’t want to leave.

And it pained him to admit when he realized this was the nicest conversation he’d had with someone outside of work in a very, very long time.

“Thanks for—” Aaron paused, biting his lip, “thanks for fixing me up.”

“It’s least I could do, seeing as I broke you.” Aaron turned the knob and pushed open the door, the difference in temperature shocking him for a second, so much so that it startled him when Cas said, “Wait!”

He turned with a frown, “Is something wrong?”

“I didn’t get your name,” Cas said timidly.

“Oh.” How rude of him. “It’s Aaron.”

“Well, it was… interesting meeting you, Aaron.”

“You as well, Cas”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**January 14 th @ 4am**

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I think you just did.”

Spencer swatted at his upper arm, and Sam did the unthinkable: he laughed. He didn’t know how, or why, he was so lighthearted. Maybe it was the buzz that was still hovering around, all of the beer he’d consumed that night still fuzzing the edges of his consciousness. Maybe it was the endorphins running him rampant, flooding his system in the wake of the intense orgasm he just had, one which his body was still tingling from even as he lay pillowed in Spencer’s bed, the young doctor tucked under his arm and equally sated. Or maybe it was just that Spencer was, without question, the most amazing person he’d ever known in his life. He was betting on the latter, due in part _to_ the copious alcohol and the endorphins, but also thanks to Spencer’s unconditional acceptance that still felt unreal, like it had happened in a dream.

They’d walked back to Spencer’s apartment in near silence, only sharing between them shy smiles and the occasional longing glance. Hand in hand they’d meandered in the dark and the snow, cutting a path through the park and onto the main street, where Spencer had immediately picked up the pace. Even as they’d shed their winter wear in his foyer, Spencer was frozen, his thin shoulders were trembling, his fingers stiff and clumsy as he hung their jackets in the closet. And when Sam had grasped one of his hands in his own, feeling his slender fingers cold as ice, he’d led Spencer upstairs without another word, stripping him bare and getting him under the covers before setting to warm him up.

Not bothering to turn on a light, the apartment was still pitch dark, lit only by the pale moonlight that shone through the cracks in Spencer’s makeshift curtains. He’d attempted to clean the mess of his bedroom it seemed, though Sam was betting he’d kept it tidy since the last time Sam had cleaned it for him. There were still scads of books littering the floor, but they were in neat piles, and there was some semblance of organization at least. And like he always did when he found himself in Spencer’s room, he scanned the books Spencer had read last, looking for the titles that he knew he’d scrawled sigils in so that he could put them in their proper places once Spencer was out of eyeshot.

He should probably come clean about that, as well.

Even if the very notion still twisted his stomach in nervous anticipation.

Brought out of his reverie by Spencer kissing his collarbone, Sam stretched his free arm over his head, working the kinks out of his shoulder. “You wanted to ask me something?” he said, walking his fingertips down Spencer’s bare back just to watch him shiver in response.

“I do,” Spencer replied, absently scraping his nails through the thick thatch of hair on Sam’s chest, his face shadowed by moonlight and tucked just under Sam’s chin, “but—”

Sam frowned when he trailed off, ducking his chin to his chest so he could catch a glimpse of his pensive expression. “But what?” he asked, cupping Spencer’s cheek in hand and tilting his head back, coaxing him into looking up.  

“It’s about your dad,” Spencer said, his eyes wide and worried, peering up at him from underneath his furrowed brow, “and I don’t want to push you any more than I already have.”

His chest clenching uncomfortably, Sam couldn’t tell if it was out of guilt or fear. On one hand, Spencer looked like he was just shy of frightened, and that made him feel like an absolute boar. He didn’t want Spencer to be afraid to ask him anything, and he certainly hated that he’d created this dynamic where he felt he needed to tip toe around him. On the other, however, Sam could feel his anxiety welling up, deadening the sound of their combined breathing, the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock downstairs.

A part of him knew that this wasn’t going to be a cure all. Spencer knowing about his dad was only the tip of the iceberg; he still needed to contend with the decades of torture, abuse and brainwashing his father had put him through. Not having to hide from Spencer would be a big help, sure, but it wasn’t going to erase his trauma.

He thought that it might get a little easier, though.

“It’s okay.” Sam meant to sound confident, but it came out a pathetic croak, and Spencer only looked more dismayed.

“No, it’s not,” he said, peppering Sam’s chest with kisses, as though he were trying to make it better, and that alone was enough to warm Sam’s heart and loosen the iron grip of his nerves, “and that’s okay. I don’t need to know right now, we can—”

“Spence,” Sam said, tapping his chin and coaxing Spencer into looking at him again, “I mean it. I’m going to have trouble talking about this, but I trust you. The worst is over; you know, and you’re still here.”

Spencer clasped Sam’s hand in his and said, so earnestly Sam had to refrain from toppling him backwards into an embarrassingly needy bear hug, “I’ll always be here, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need you to ask your question, and ask it fast,” Sam said, his voice husky with the heat that had abruptly bloomed in his belly, and he slid his hand down Spencer’s naked waist, gripping his hip tightly, “because you’re too cute for your own good.”

Spencer gasped, his body rolling in one long wave across Sam’s side, and he slid a slim thigh between Sam’s own to ground himself. “I’ll try to be as expedient as I can,” he said, resting his chin on Sam’s chest. He took a deep breath, and asked, “Why is there salt on my windowsills?”

And there it was. Sam stopped breathing, his lungs aching in protest as his chest constricted to the point he could no longer inhale. His heartbeat ricocheted up to eleven, and Spencer immediately frowned when Sam’s gaze went distant, as he looked past him to some unseen corner of the room. “You don’t need to answer,” Spencer told him, rubbing his stomach soothingly, but Sam shook his head, clenching his eyes shut and forcing his lungs to expand, to push against the vice of his ribs.

“No,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “no, I can do this.”

He tapped his right finger against Spencer’s hip twice, and blessedly, Spencer didn’t comment on it.

“It keeps—” he cut himself off, feeling his throat tighten, his words wheezing past his strained vocal cords. He tried again, “My dad thought that—”

With a deep gasp, and a groan of defeat, he let his head fall back against the pillows and covered his eyes with one hand. Why couldn’t he just spit it out? Spencer clearly made the correlation, and Sam wanted to tell him, but his body was fighting him at every turn. It was asinine, but his brain was still convinced that he was going to say something, just one truth too many, and that would be the final straw. Spencer would kick him out of his bed, from his home and eject him from his life completely, and Sam would be left alone, with one more person he cared for abandoning him because he was a freak.

“Hey, hey,” Spencer called to him, tapping his cheek as he lifted up onto his elbow, looking down at him with concern etched over every inch of his face, “it’s okay, Sam. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam clasped Spencer’s hand in his, pressing his palm to his cheek as he inhaled deeply, focussing on the heat of Spencer’s body, his gentle touch and his soft, consoling voice. “You were made to do your job,” Sam murmured, grateful for Spencer’s calming presence once his heartbeat returned to a reasonable pace, “if just one of the FBI agents who handled my dad’s case were as kind as you, it would have made the process… well, not easier. But maybe a little more tolerable.”

Smiling sweetly, Spencer kissed the tip of his nose, “That’s why I do it.”

A little more relaxed, Sam didn’t bother with a segue. If he thought to hard on it, he wouldn’t be able to say it at all, so he blurted out, “The salt is supposed to ward spaces against spirits and demons.”

“You—” to his credit, Spencer managed to maintain his composure, tamping down the brunt of his shock and clearing his throat, “you warded my house against demons?”

“And mine too,” Sam said, his eyes still closed. He didn’t think he could tell him this if he was looking at him, and he tapped his fingers incessantly on his hip, “Anywhere I’m staying the night, basically. It was something my dad made me do.”

“Rituals…” Spencer murmured, more to himself than to Sam, “You mentioned he had rituals.”

“You know we never had a home, right?”

“Yes.”

“We’d travel across the country, never staying anywhere for more than a month or two at a time, and we’d basically live out of motels.” Sam reached over his head and groped for the large, red leather-bound tome he’d spotted up there earlier, “Wherever we went, we’d need to ward it against creatures—what my dad believed to be creatures, anyways—that might hurt us.” He opened the book with one hand and, steeling himself for Spencer’s reaction, opened the front cover, revealing the sigils drawn on the inside, “That was my job. Salt lines, warding sigils and caring for our weapons. He used to have me do the research too, after my homework. To this day, I still need to do it, or I can’t sleep.”

Spencer was silent as he looked down at the book, running his fingers over the sigils. His expression was unreadable, and Sam could only bear to glance at him before he had to look away, scared of what he would find there. “Well,” Spencer said after a lengthy pause, closing the book and setting it back on his headboard, “I’m not going to pretend this isn’t a little violating, but I can assure you I’m not angry. It’s a compulsion you have no control over, and honestly, it’s kind of sweet.”

Sam glanced at him sharply, raising a brow, “Sweet?”

“You, or I guess, your subconscious, is trying to protect me,” Spencer shrugged, “I can appreciate that. I don’t like that you hid it, but I understand why you did, and I’m not angry. I promise. Besides,” he looked down at his hands guiltily, “I kept things from you, too.”

“And I’m not angry about that,” Sam assured him rolling onto his side and sitting up on his elbow so he could be face to face with Spencer, “I was a bit upset at first, but I get it. Besides, how can I be mad at you? You’ve seen the one part of me I hate the most, and you’re still here.”

“I shouldn’t have lied,” Spencer said, worrying his lip between his teeth, “but it’s almost second nature to me, to hide hard truths for the comfort of the people I care about.” His eye’s flashed tentatively toward Sam, “When I was younger, I needed to bend the truth all the time for my mom.”

“How so?”

“I needed to hide the extent of her illness from teachers and authority figures, so I wouldn’t be taken from her, but—” snapping his mouth shut so quickly Sam heard his teeth click, Spencer looked away, his eyebrows knotted. He was conflicted, unsure of whether he should say what he was thinking, and Sam took a page from his book; he reached out and stroked his cheek soothingly, encouraging him to do whatever he felt comfortable with. “I don’t want to make this about me,” he admitted eventually, “I want to tell you this, but I’m afraid you’ll think I’m trying to center myself in this discussion, when really I should be listening to you.”

“Please,” Sam said, “whatever you need to say, I want to hear. Besides, I could use the spotlight off me for a moment.”

Spencer nodded solemnly. “When my mom was manic, or in the midst of a psychotic break, she’d…” he trailed off, looking down at his hands again and in a soft voice, said, “she’d hit me.”

He tried to stop it, but Sam wasn’t as skilled as Spencer was at schooling his expressions. And while he was able to keep from vocalizing his outrage, he couldn’t keep from clenching his jaw, his eyes narrowing dangerously as a fierce (and ultimately useless) urge to protect swelled inside of him. “She didn’t mean to,” Spencer said quickly, hurrying to defend his mother, and his excuses were heartbreakingly familiar to Sam, “she wasn’t herself, and when she was lucid again she wouldn’t remember, so I just wouldn’t tell her. I’d make up a story about how I hurt myself, that I was clumsy, because I didn’t want to hurt her or make her feel guilty.” He laughed self-depreciatively, “She used to call me Crash, since I was always running into things.”

“I’ve never been very good at lying,” Sam said, resting a hand over Spencer’s, who was currently fidgeting nervously with the sheets, “but I was excellent at pretending things weren’t real. I was eight years old when I first realized monsters didn’t exist.”

His body was humming in heady detachment, and it felt like the words he was speaking were coming from someone else’s mouth. It made it easier to talk about this, but he was still tense, at least until Spencer rolled onto his back, his upper half nestled amongst his stack of pillows, and pulled Sam close. As Sam rest his head on Spencer’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pounding against his cheek, he closed his eyes, forgot where he was and just let the words pour from his mouth, for once freeing his thoughts without censoring them.

“I remember I was at Bobby’s— dad used to leave me there sometimes if he and Dean were going to be gone long—and I was reading one of his old books on demonology.” He smoothed his palm up and down Spencer’s stomach, letting himself relax and lose himself in the softness of his skin, “I said something, I don’t quite recall what it was, but I remember Bobby looking up at me. He was sitting in his recliner, reading some trashy romance novel, and he had the most peculiar look on his face, like he’d just stepped in something but he couldn’t figure out what it was. And—I swear Spencer, I’ll never forget it—he asked me so slowly, if I thought those books were the god’s honest truth.”

“He didn’t know, right?”

Sam shook his head, “No. He was just an old shut in with a penchant for the occult: it was a hobby to him. But Ellen, who’s his wife now, she introduced dad to him, and he let dad use his library. He thought dad was a hobbyist too, and he told me later that he liked having John visit regularly, so he could check in on Dean and I, make sure he was treating us right. When I finally turned dad in, I went to Bobby first.”

“You didn’t turn your dad in until you were twelve,” Spencer said, though it wasn’t a condemnation. He was just stating facts.

“I ignored what Bobby told me,” Sam explained, focussing on Spencer’s fingers as he carded them through his hair, “I knew he was right, that it was all make believe, but I couldn’t reconcile that so I ignored it. And under my dad’s schedule and rules, I could. Then Dean—” he stammered, clenching his eyes shut tighter, and Spencer held him even tighter, hushing him until he could get his breathing back, “Until Dean came home from a hunt with dad, and he had blood on his hands.”

“Sam,” Spencer murmured, “you don’t need to go on if you don’t feel like you can.”

“I can,” he insisted, but he held him tighter still, “Dean was catatonic. I took care of him for three days: three days where he was either crying, sleeping or staring into space. He’d never been like this before, and dad just left him there with me… just dumped him off at the flea bag motel we were at without a word. By the end of the third day, he told me.”

“He’d been forced to participate in the murder of Cindy McClellan,” Spencer finished for him, “because your father was convinced she was possessed by a demon.”

Sam nodded, and when he blinked, he started when his vision blurred with tears, having not even realized he was crying. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking, “he’d helped track and capture before, but dad never made him participate. I guess he was finally indoctrinating him, but clearly, it backfired. Dean told me that even though they always…” he took a big, belly filling breath, blowing it out through his mouth as he felt his pulse climb again, “even though they looked like people, dad told him they were just good at hiding in plain sight. But when Dean stabbed her, there was no smoke, no flames like dad said there would be: she just bled. She screamed. And she pleaded with him for her life, because she wasn’t a demon. She wasn’t a monster. She was human, just like all the others that came before her.”

Blindsided by a heavy, wet sob that exploded from his chest with the force of a thunderclap, he was suddenly enveloped in Spencer’s arms, grappling at his back as he tried to bury himself against Spencer’s chest, his shoulders shuddering with each cry. “You were just kids,” Spencer said to him, rubbing his back with both hands and letting Sam cling to him like an overgrown tree, long limbs and snotty nose be damned, “you couldn’t do anything, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It fucked him up,” Sam sobbed, vaguely aware that he was dripping tears onto the sheets below them, but Spencer didn’t seem to mind, “He thought he was helping people, but he was just helping our dad, a murderer, collect his victims. After that, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.” He pulled back and scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, “I told Bobby, Bobby took me to the police, and dad was arrested the next day, trying to cross the border into Arizona with Dean in tow and a twenty-year-old man in the trunk.”

Collecting him in his arms again, Spencer held him close, their legs tangling under the covers as he kissed his temple, murmuring, “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

Sam sniffled, still crying (he didn’t know when it started, so obviously he didn’t know how to stop it) but silently now. He felt numb, like he was floating out of his body, and all of Spencer’s soft, comforting touches felt muted, a mile away though he was laying in his arms. “I’ve only told five people voluntarily, you know? Not including you.” He raised a hand, five fingers spread, and counted them down, “Cas and Kevin, my first girlfriend Jessica, a girl in med school named Madison, and Ruby. Cas and Kevin were the only ones to ever stick it out.”

“Until now,” Spencer said, “I promise you, I’m not going anywhere.”

And Sam believed him. Sitting up in bed, he grabbed a tissue from the nearby box and wiped his nose, every breath still shuddering, but steady. He was drained, exhausted… but he also felt rejuvenated, for the first time in as long as he could remember. In the silence of their surroundings, he listened to the rustle of the sheets are Spencer sat up as well, felt his closeness and the heat of his gaze as he watched him, Sam was no longer crushed under the weight of secrecy. The very thing that had frightened him, that had hung like the sword of Damocles over his head was still there, but in plain sight, and all the ramifications he feared would come to pass upon its revelation didn’t.

Spencer was still there, with his arms wrapped loosely around Sam’s waist and his chin on his shoulder, the very picture of calm and acceptance. He wasn’t afraid of him, nor was he disgusted by him, and instead he was content to be there, comforting him in a way only he could, and Sam couldn’t help but marvel at how much he adored him.

He’d never anticipated that the adorable, dorky coffee addict who read ten books a week would even give him the time of day, much less stick around long enough to learn about his past. And Sam never dared to dream that telling him about it would be this easy. Save for the tears and their spat in the park, this had by far gone the smoothest, save for when he told Cas, who had only stared at him blankly for a moment before offering to make him a tea. Tossing the balled-up tissue off to the side, Sam looked over his shoulder at Spencer and said, “You’re too good for me.”

But Spencer just shook his head and replied, “I’m perfect for you.”

How could he argue with that?

Without another word between them, Sam skirted his fingers over Spencer’s cheekbones, burying them in his silken hair as he kissed him. His cheeks were still tacky from his tears, and his nose was still stuffed, but it felt like the only thing to do. Spencer seemed to agree, urging Sam to turn and going along willingly when Sam pressed him backwards into the mattress, blanketing him with his body as their mouths moved in tandem, spreading his legs and framing Sam between his thighs.

The wet sound of their kisses filled the quiet room, accompanied by the rustling sheets and the soft, sweet noises Sam coaxed from Spencer. He was clinging to his broad shoulders like a man adrift at sea, wrapping all four of his limbs around Sam and holding him impossibly close, until there was nothing left between them but skin. And Sam realized then, not with a start but with a subtle, creeping awareness that Spencer had been just as afraid as he was. The way he held him, the way he kissed him told a story, one of a man who was frightened that, by withholding the truth, he’d have pushed Sam away. It didn’t take a profiler figure out that Spencer was feeling guilty, that he was frightened Sam might still leave him, like he would retroactively take offence to his deception and disappear from his life.

 _That won’t do at all_ , Sam mused, dipping both hands between Spencer’s lower back and the mattress, pressing his fingers into his soft skin. Spencer moaned, then gasped, his chest bumping against Sam’s when he thrust his hips forwards, sweat beginning to pool between their heated bodies, and when Sam moved from his lips, trailing kisses down his jaw he was reluctant to let him go, only acquiescing when he began nibbling at his throat.

“I’m not angry,” Sam reiterated and Spencer went still in his arms, aside from the rocking of his hips against Sam’s which was, at this point, outside both their control, “and I’m not upset. I’m glad you already knew. I’m relieved.”

“But I hid it from you,” he murmured, scraping his nails up Sam’s back, nipping at his shoulder when it came within reach of his mouth, “I should have told you months ago.”

“I don’t know if I was ready to hear it months ago,” Sam confessed, sliding a hand between them and teasing his fingers along Spencer’s abdomen, tracing his hips, his inner thighs, coaxing Spencer higher with each pass of his fingertips, “Spence, this was the best-case scenario.”

Spencer shook his head, “But I ruined your party.”

Sam sucked at his collarbone, “You did no such thing.”

Spencer gasped, grabbing Sam’s ass with both hands and towing him down, their hips crashing fervently now, their erections sliding against one another and the negligible distance between them creating the most delicious friction. “I betrayed your trust,” he stammered.

“If that’s true, then I did the same to you.” Sam ducked his head against Spencer’s throat, panting heavily, “And I’m not mad about it.”

Grasping Sam’s chin with an unsteady hand, Spencer tilted his head backwards, until Sam was gazing up at his lust blown eyes, bright and hazy in the moon light, “I made you cry.”

“I made _you_ cry,” Sam lifted himself up onto his elbows, one on either side of Spencer’s head, “and for that, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Spencer said, flattening his palms against Sam’s chest, “for everything.”

Smiling, Sam kissed his forehead, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being you.”

“I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

Sam kissed him then, and he was loath to let him go. Not even as he slipped into the heated clutch of Spencer’s body, pulled in by every gasp and murmur that past his lips, his own personal sirens song. He kissed him as he thrust into him, Spencer’s thighs clenching around him with every roll of his hips, his soft hands running over the flanks of his torso, nails scraping along his ribs.

He couldn’t quit him, even when Spencer maneuvered him onto his back, his palms flat on Sam’s chest as he rocked his slender hips, Sam’s hard length buried to the hilt inside of him, shuddering at every push and pull, his orgasm coiling like a knot in his belly. He rose up and Spencer kissed him immediately, sucking Sam’s lower lip between his teeth and panting, open mouthed and wanton as Sam brought him to the edge, toppling over with him as he came inside, Spencer’s name a ghost on his lips.

He couldn’t stop kissing him, not even as he laid Spencer against the pillows, not until Spencer pushed him back, laughing as he said, “If you don’t stop, they’re never going to look normal again.”

Sam ran his thumb over Spencer’s plump, swollen lips, “I kind of like them like this.”

“Well, I don’t want to explain to my coworkers why I look like I got injections on Monday,” Spencer sighed, kissing Sam’s thumb, “besides, I’m tipsy, I’m warm and now I’m certainly exhausted.”

“Sleep,” Sam told him, brushing his hair back from his forehead, “I’ve got—”

He froze, not certain he wanted to say what was hovering on the tip of his tongue, but Spencer beat him to it.

“Go,” he said, rolling away from Sam onto his stomach as he cuddled into his pillow, “do what you need to. Salt’s in the cupboard under the sink.”

“You’re amazing,” Sam whispered, ducking down and kissing his shoulder until Spencer swatted him away.

“You can praise me in the morning, now let me sleep.”

Not for the first (or even the tenth, if he was being honest) time that night, Sam could hardly contend with how in love he was, so much so he wanted to scream it from the roof tops, or the very least tell Spencer about it. But instead, out of patience or cowardice, he couldn’t really say which, he padded down the stairs, going through his night rituals quietly, but no longer secretly.


End file.
